


Nevermore

by emma_and_orlando



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Domestic Fluff, Drug Addiction, Forced Prostitution, Freddie is too sweet for his own good, Gang Violence, M/M, Recovery, Sickness, hurt!Roger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 43
Words: 330,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emma_and_orlando/pseuds/emma_and_orlando
Summary: After years of forced prostitution and drug abuse, Roger finds three people willing to change his life.John is overworked, Brian is sick and Freddie is too kind for is own good.
Relationships: John Deacon/Brian May/Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, Roger Taylor/Original Characters
Comments: 1616
Kudos: 525





	1. Of Kindness and Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Freddie Mercury is a therapist struggling to support his boyfriends as one battles a serious illness while the other works himself to the bone to keep the three of them afloat. 
> 
> Roger Taylor is trapped in a never ending cycle of forced prostitution, drugs, and abuse from which he doesn't believe he'll ever get out.
> 
> The two of them find each other.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> Hi! 
> 
> Please before reading this story, please read the rating, the warnings and the tags. There are a lot of potential triggers in the story, including: drug abuse, prostitution, rape/non-con, sickness, abusive relationship and general angst.
> 
> But!!! None of the abuse is done by any of the Queen members, but by other characters. 
> 
> The story is set in 1970
> 
> Thank you so much and please have a good read!

Freddie's father always warned him that he was too kind to people. That one unfortunate day he will be used and see the true colors of the world. 

His mother, ever the optimist, used to tell him that he was brave for carrying his heart on his sleeve and that his generosity would pave his way to Heaven. 

With the parental advice engraved in his mind— Freddie passed his childhood giving. 

As a kid he spend his weekly allowance on food for the stray cats in the dumpsters across the street. He took the blame for his sister for broken vases and shattered dishes. Once he got older he let people borrow money and never ask it back. He did the homework of any classmate with any lousy excuse. Not to mention how this later manifested into his guidable love life. 

Looking back, Freddie admittedly had been too kind for his own good.

If only he was someone to learn from his mistakes.

★ ☆★

It was awfully sunny for an early November morning. 

The beams of the sun shine through the bare branches of the tree. Freddie's boots kick at the fallen leaves on the pavement. Spreading them in every which way or crushing them under the weight of his sole. The birds have all flown south, which leaves the streets quiet, besides an odd car honk or clattering heels of a woman rushing to her work. 

He likes to park two blocks away from the office so he can get two minutes of fresh air.

The air is thick with the prospect of winter. Promising a December of cold. 

Freddie makes a mental note to bring his gloves with him tomorrow. His fingers are freezing around his little leather suitcase. Despite enjoying the quiet and fresh hair, he walks a little faster to get inside snd make himself a steaming cup of tea.

By the time he rounds the corner of the street his breaths cause cold damp clouds to come out of his nostrils. He pants for air and nearly misses the scene that plays out right before his eyes in his haste to open the door to the office.

"Hey— hey you!" 

For a split second Freddie fears that the two policemen are yelling at him and are stomping in his direction. 

But a second look at the nearly empty street before him shows that another young person is their target.

A skinny figure, leaning against a car door with an open window parked by the curb, chatting up whoever is inside— but drives off as soon as the policemen come rounding the corner of the street. 

Frozen in place, Freddie watches the person stumble in an effort not to fall over when the mysterious car driver takes off without them. 

Their back is turned to Freddie until they try to stagger away from the policemen.

"Stop right there! That's an order!"

They are not dressed appropriately for the biting cold of the early morning winds, in their knee length skirt and ratty sweater falling apart by the threads. Their entire body is shivering with either nerves or cold as another breeze hits and the policemen start running in his direction. 

Their long blond hair covers most of their face. Preventing the from seeing where exactly they were going and promptly stumbling into Freddie's chest while he tries to escape. 

"Oof!"

"Fuck! Sorry." With that, the stranger tries to pass by Freddie even though it is a lost cause. The policemen will have the poor person in their grip within the next second, while he is still gathering himself from his collision with Freddie. 

Freddie— now realizes that this person is not only a prostitute, but also a man.

Common prostitutes still face up to 7 years in prison for practicing in public. Cross-dressing will certainly at least earn him a couple more. Homosexuality will cost the stranger even higher prosecutions. 

In that moment Freddie has three choices.

1\. Let the policemen do their work and arrest the man.  
2\. Let the man go and take his chances on how far his wobbly legs can carry him. 

Or option number 3. The one that would have his father shake his head and his mother smile in gleeful pride. 

"Darling! There you are."

Freddie has a steel grip on the mans thin arm. Forcing him still and preventing him from running, despite his obvious struggle to flee. Eyes wide and desperate as he tries to wrangle his arm free.

Not one to give up, Freddie pulls him in the direction of the office. Confusing both the police and the man. 

"You were almost late for our appointment. Had looked all around the block for you."

He keeps his voice light and airy as he holds the door open for the blond man. Smiling down at him while his eyes scream for him to play along. Squeezing his arm in a way which Freddie hopes is reassuring. 

"But I—" He blinks rapidly, and when Freddie tries a smile, the mans eyes slowly widen. "Oh! Right. Yes, sorry." 

"No problem, dear. We should hurry inside now. It's freezing out!" Freddie chuckles tightly, watching Roger shuffle safely into the office, before looking up at the two policemen standing just outside the door to watch the scene suspiciously.

Not giving them time to rethink, Freddie gives them a nod. "Gentlemen." Before closing the door behind himself.

★ ☆★

Freddie has Roger ushered into the building without a question from the receptionist Greta. Who's always too occupied polishing her nails in between calls to pay attention to familiar faces. 

It is pure chance that Freddie has no other appointments this morning. The waiting room is mostly empty besides Shirleys regular patient in the far corner reading a health and fitness magazine and the schizophrenic woman who drops in every other month when her medication needs adjusting. 

When one of Freddie's colleagues waves at him from her own office, she doesn't suspect anything weird going on. Not even by the sight of the disheveled man trailing after Freddie like a lost puppy.

Together they make their way through the long brown hallway leading up to his office.

Freddie unlocks the office with the key. Waiting for the trembling man to walk in before him and take a seat wherever he feels the most comfortable. 

Blue eyes scan over the office quickly. Lingering on the large window he could use to escape and the armchair he could use to shatter the glass. 

Other than that. The office is plain white and brown with wood. A desk in the corner with a typewriter and Freddie's paperwork. A bookshelf with patients records. Two tiny couches and two armchairs. A simple houseplant made of plastic and a tea set in the far corner. 

The man choses for the first piece of furniture before him, the brown leather sofa with cushions that make you sink in deep.

He watches Freddie close the door quietly and make his way over to the chair opposite of him.

Freddie lets himself be observed. Leaving his suitcase on the desk. Unzipping his coat and throwing it over the back of the chair, before taking place on it. Legs crossed comfortably.

The other man doesn't squirm when Freddie decides to observe him as well. 

Taking in the tightness of his skin over his facial bones and the sunken darkness under his strikingly stunning eyes. His hair is grim and greasy from a lack of hygiene and his clothes seem unwashed as well. 

_Prostitute. Drug addict. Lost._

Freddie notes that, despite being inside, the man is still shivering and rubbing his palms together to generate some warmth. 

"Here."

Freddie takes his thermos bottle from his suitcase. He unscrews the cap and gives it to his guest. "For the cold."

"Thank you."

It is the second time Freddie hears his voice. He wonders if it is always so raspy, or that it is the current state of being that has led his vocal cords to bruise. 

He cradles the warm bottle between his palms. Breathing in the hot aroma of coffee curling into his nostrils.

"It's no big deal." Freddie says automatically. 

The other man lets the corner of his lip quirk up in a half smile. "You might have just saved my life."

Over the brim of the drink and under his unkept fringe and grime, it is hard to make out most of the strangers facial features, but Freddie can't help imagine that this man was once breathtakingly beautiful. 

He yawns. Wide and open without covering his mouth.

"Tired?" Freddie finds himself asking.

"Been out all night, mate." He replies after a long generous sip of coffee.

The smile is wiped off of Freddie's face as fast as it hard appeared. 

"Right."

Eyes growing soft, the stranger gives Freddie another easy smile as he tries to convey the right words and the right amount of sincerity to speak up again in the air of the stuffy office. 

"They could have arrested me for soliciting in public. They would have found drugs in my system and then the charges for homosexuality." The man sits back against the couch. Drawing his knees up to cross on the seat. "I wouldn't ever see the light of day again." 

Freddie senses the relief combined with sorrow tighten the strangers throat. He leans forward, opening his palms to the stranger.

He blinks at the offered hands, before giving his own shaking hands to the man before him. 

Freddie clasps his warm hands over his smaller ones. Cradling them delicately around the coffee cup. 

"You are welcome."

"Thank you." He flashes a toothy grin. "I'm repeating myself— sorry."

"Nobody has to apologize for speaking in my office." Freddie assures without letting go of the cold mans hands until they are no longer sickly pale going on yellow. 

The reminder of the setting has the mans eyes look away from Freddie's to dart around the room again. Blue orbs falling on the degrees on Freddie's wall behind the desk and the shelves with records close to the large window. 

When his eyes land on Freddie once more, the coffee has done its work of waking him up. 

"I can't afford therapy." 

Freddie now allows a smile as well.

"Luckily, I'm not your therapist— I'm just Freddie. But we don't tell anyone here at the office." 

"Would you be in trouble?" He asks carefully. 

Freddie can't lie and nods, "I can't use this office for personal reasons and especially not during work hours. It'd be a violation of several rules in place of a professional healing environment." He is forced to watch the worry instantly fill the other mans already sunken eyes. Within a split second, the man is back on his feet, wobbling dangerously, he hands Freddie his bottle back before he staggers towards the door with a stuttered apology.

"Hey, where are you going, darling?" Freddie catches up on him because he is much faster on his feet. 

The man turns around before he has manages to switch the doorknob. 

His eyes are everywhere but on Freddie as he scans the room. Hands curling in the length of his skirt in an effort to stay calm. 

"Don't want to get you in trouble. Don't want to get found."

"Nobody will find out." 

Freddie approaches him like someone would approach a wounded animal who had curled itself in a corner.

Hands up in surrender and a smile on his already kind face.

"I promise you, nobody's gonna know. We can pretend you are a patient. I'll even add you to my patients list, we can just pretend." 

He is shaking all over again. Back pressed tightly against the wooden door and his limbs are pressed stiffly against his sides. 

Freddie decides to stop at an arms length. Not making an effort to touch the blond man. 

"If you want to leave, you can go. The door is unlocked and I won't keep you against your will." 

The words don't work to calm the man down again. It doesn't even earn Freddie a peek at those beautiful blue eyes now hidden by long dark blond hair and he is looking down at their shoes. Leather Clarks opposite worn, hole filled sneakers. 

"If you decide to go, please take my coffee and some cash so you can get home safe. I don't have much on me, but I should have enough for a cab drive within London. If you need more, I'm just gonna need a moment to—"

"What do you want from me? _really_?" 

"Nothing." Freddie promises. Letting out very exaggerated calm breaths in the hopes that the stranger might stop himself from hyperventilating. "Nothing, I mean it. But if _you_ ever need help, I'm right here. Just try to make an appointment next time at the reception." 

The stranger seems to pick up on Freddie's breathing pattern. He tries to adjust his panting. 

Fingers clutch tight in his skirt, he explains what is stopping him. Freddie realizes that they are back to making eye contact. "I don't have insurance or an ID... Stuff like that." 

Nonetheless, Freddie presses to him that he should return if he wants any help sorting out  
whatever is going on with him. 

The man doesn't look convinced. 

"I'm not sure if you could handle me. Especially not without getting paid." 

"Think about it. You look like you could use a hand." He gives the other man the steaming bottle of coffee back. "You know where my door is."

Bony fingers curl around the bottle. His freezing fingertips brush against Freddie's. 

A smile tugs on the corner of the mans lips. 

"Thank you." 

"You're welcome..."

"Roger." The man supplies, clutching the bottle to his chest as if it were the most precious thing he owned. "That's my name."

" _Roger_ , stay safe."

Then, Freddie watches the door open with a click and the other man let out a relieved sigh when he realizes he truly isn't kept there against his will.

"You too!" Roger calls over his shoulder when he pushes the door open and stalks into the hallway. 

Freddie watches him go with a heavy heart and fears he'll never see him again. 

★ ☆★

"Brian!"

Freddie beams when the glass doors of the hospital open and finally reveal a familiar face.

He comes jogging down the parking lot to the curb, where the nurse stops Brians wheelchair from rolling onto the street.

"Hi you." 

Freddie crouches down and wraps his arms around Brians middle, trying very hard not squish him in his enthusiasm. The contact still causes Brian to grunt low in his throat and stiffen in Freddie's embrace.

"Sorry." Freddie cringes. He clutches his hands to his chest to smile sheepishly at Brian. 

"Hey Fred."

His voice, just like himself has voice has grown thin from his time in the hospital. He is still unnaturally pale and his eyes are sunken, in a way that brings Freddie back to the man he had met that morning. 

Freddie tries to shake off the thoughts of whatever trouble Roger might be getting himself into right this moment. With his big blue sorrowful eyes and his hole filtered sweater.

Freddie pushes these thoughts and the moo of messy blond hair to the back of his mind. 

"How are you feeling, dear? Ready to come home?" 

Brians cheeks are hollow out even further when he smiles. Flashing Freddie his sharp teeth. "Ready to go home."

"Good!" 

Freddie takes over the wheelchair handles from the nurse. She bids Brian farewell and presses him to be careful during his recovery period. 

Initially he has thought he has a good parking spot close to the hospital doors, but in hindsight, Freddie should have tries to find a closer space.

It is hard for him to steer with one hand so he can splay his free hand on Brians shoulder after weeks without intimacy. It becomes especially difficult on the gritty asphalt leading up to the car. Nearly causing the wheelchair to swirl and Brian to topple onto the floor if it weren't for Freddie clawing at his grey itchy hospital sweater. 

"Ow. Fuck." 

Brian bends forward and grits his teeth. His arm clutched around his middle.

"I'm sorry! Sorry." Freddie quickly attaches both hands back on the handles. "I'm too excited." 

"It's okay." Brian grunts, seemingly still trying not to convulse in pain. 

Freddie goes extra slow now. Inching the last steps to the car, before helping Brian into the shotgun seat with only a little strain. Brian has truly lost a large amount of weight even since before he was admitted to the hospital.

"Are you okay?"

Freddie arranges the seatbelt around Brian and huddles the spare blanket in the backseat over his frame. 

Brian lets his eyes fall closed and nods with his head resting against the back of the seat. 

"Still tender from the operation." 

"I'll get you home quick and safe."

"Emphasis on safe." Brian grunts when Freddie slams the door shut, folds the wheelchair in the back and climbs into the drivers seat with a gleeful smile. If Brians eyes were open he would be blinded by the sheer happiness radiating off of him.

Before starting the gas, Freddie quickly scans his eyes over the mostly empty parking lot.

When he is mostly sure nobody is watching, he leans over to press a kiss against Brians slightly parted lips.

His eyes flutter back open. He smiles when Freddie's face is still close to his.

"I'm so happy to go home."

"I know." Freddie whispers, he eagerly pecks Brians lips again, before driving them away from the looming shadow of the hospital building. 

★ ☆★

"Do you think you could hold down some soup?" 

Freddie has Brian on the living room couch in less than a minute. Making quick work of getting him out of his hospital clothes and into his old pajamas, getting his feet wrapped in his warmest socks and a blanket thrown over his frame. Brians stomach is still healing from the failed operation of four days ago. He needs a body pillow to hold onto, preventing himself from rolling onto his stomach and waking up in agonizing pain.

He is barely awake anymore by the time Freddie has the blankets pulled up to his chin and Delilah cuddles in the crook of his elbow. 

"Maybe. My tummy hurts."

"I'll make you some and you can decide if you want it tonight. Okay?"

"M'kay."

Freddie is on his knees by the side of the couch. He brushes his fingers gently through the hairs falling over Brians face. He coos, waiting for Brians eyes to close. 

When he is sure Brian has fallen asleep, he kisses the smooth skin of his forehead and leaves a wet patch. Freddie gets to his feet to start with dinner with a smile on his face, not because he particularly likes cooking or is any good at it, but because his loved one is back home with him. Sleeping safe and soundly under the blankets. 

He likes to let his mind wander while he cooks. The house is small and he can't have music playing in the kitchen without having the sound bleed into the living room. 

It isn't wise for a horrid cook like him to be absent minded while he works. Nearly chopping off his thumb and then letting the chopped carrots tumble onto the tiles like a clown in a comedic sketch. 

But Freddie _can't_ help himself.

His gut tells him something is wrong. Something having to do with the stranger he had met that morning. 

Roger. With his knee-length skirt and long eyelashes shadowing the bruises under his eyes.

Freddie loves his job for many reasons. Firstly because he gets to sit on his arse for most of the day and drink as much tea as he sees fit, but most importantly, he gets to help people and make positive changes in his patients lives.

That is why it broke his heart to know someone as frail as Roger is out in the world alone. On the run for the police and whatever else is hunting him. 

Freddie has yet to meet a sex worker without a heart wrenching story.

He shouldn't be getting attached to someone he won't see again and will most likely end up in jail or dead with the peaking heights in crimes against prostitutes this year. 

Roger is no different from the stray cats Freddie would feed when he was seven years old. 

Their manes were most likely beautiful underneath the dumpster dirt and skinniness from the hunger. They would hiss at him when he would approach them to help and feed them a can of tuna taken from the back of the food cabinet. 

Freddie would rarely see the same stray cats twice. At times finding the other cats munching on the remains of their deceased friend.

Foolish as it might be, Freddie doesn't learn from past mistakes and had indeed added Roger to his patient list. 

Which is for the most part against the rules. And a little illegal. 

"Fred?"

"Jesus!" 

Freddie nearly sends his knife flying across the room, luckily it slips from his grip and clatters to the floor. Missing his bare feet just barely.

He clutches his hand to his chest where his heart tries to jump out.

"Jesus Christ, who let's you use sharp utensils in this house?" John asks while he steps into the kitchen with his work clothes still on and toolkit in his hand.

Freddie bends down to grab the knife. 

"It was my husband, he makes me slave away in the kitchen."

"He sounds awful."

"The worst." Freddie smiles, waiting for John to close the distance between them. 

The kiss is short, but still manages to make Freddie's toes curl on the cold tiles. For a moment he forgets about the droopy eyed blond and Brians illness. He simply enjoys the comforting warmth Johns lips offer and the clutch of his rough hand on his hip. Pinning him down and grounding Freddie in place. 

"Welcome home." Freddie smiles when John breaks the kiss.

"Indeed." John puts his toolkit on the empty side of the counter and rests his forehead against Freddie's with a shoulder deflating sigh. "How was your day?" 

"Better than yours, I think." 

Freddie splays his fingers through Johns long hair. Combing from the root all the way down. 

"T'was alright, just don't think I can handle the 11 hour shifts anymore."

"I'm sorry."

John has been picking up as many hours as he can at his job. Taking the early morning clients with emergencies that couldn't wait until 7 am. 

They had to make up for the dent in their monthly income now that Brian can't work. 

"It's not your fault." John manages to look up back at Freddie and drag himself back onto his own weight. "Hope things can go back to normal soon."

"I don't know... Brian still isn't looking too well." 

Freddie finds his lip catching between his front teeth. He nibbles on the sensitive skin while he fiddles with the strings on his hoodie. 

John must have noticed, wrapping his hands around Freddie's wrists to still his hands. 

"What's going on? If you're worried about Brian, the doctors couldn't find anything during the operation. It means he might just be okay in a few weeks and we were all just—"

"I met someone today."

This seems to surprise John, who is stunned silent. 

"Oh."

"Yes, he was trying to uh, prostitute himself to a man across the office."

John grimaces. "Jesus." 

"The police saw him. The car he was trying to get in drove off and it left him stranded there, all alone. He could barely stand on his feet. He might have been on drugs, he hadn't slept for at least a good 24 hours. It was such a horrific sight to see him try to outrun the police, who were far quicker and more oriented than he was."

Expectedly, John crosses his arms across his chest and frowns at Freddie.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing!" He squeaks. 

His resolve crumbles when Johns eyebrow cocks up into his fringe. Freddie desperately doesn't squirm under his no-bullshit stare.

"I mean, I couldn't just let him get arrested, right? What kind of person would I be?"

John can't help but huff out a good natured chuckle. "Not Freddie Mercury."

"Exactly."

Freddie beams again when John leans in for another kiss, this time using both hands to cradle Freddie flush against him. 

★ ☆★

The bed finally doesn't feel as empty anymore now that Brian is back.

To celebrate his return, he sleeps in the middle tonight. Laying on his side, supported by his body pillow to prevent worsening his abdominal pain. 

He is warmly wedged between Freddie John.

John has his arms around Brians waist and nuzzles against his neck with his cold nose.

Freddie has his back pressed against Brians body pillow. One of Brians legs is slung over Freddie and keeping him close.

Brians dreamy mumbles fill the silence of the bedroom. The red zooming numbers on the alarm clock are the only light source. The space smells exclusively of _them_. 

It is all perfectly familiar and Freddie is more comfortable than he could ever be. 

Still he finds himself unable to sleep. Looking at the far wall opposite of him, where they had hung a mirror. His reflection starting back at himself in the slightly red tainted lightening always creeps him out.

He thinks.

About the tired lines on Johns forehead. Brians unidentified disease. Rogers whereabouts and safety.

"Freddie?"

Freddie closes his eyes at the sound of Johns voice and drowns out the reflection of himself before he starts to shake.

"Yes?"

"Don't let them take advantage of you."

The words linger in the deafening quiet of the room. John doesn't speak again. 

Freddie doesn't get much sleep that night.

★ ☆★

He shouldn't be disappointed when the day after Roger doesn't show up again.

Freddie walks into the waiting room a grand total of 36 times, before he decides he is pathetic for seriously expecting him to come back, after Roger had nearly been arrested at that exact location for practicing his job.

It wouldn't make sense anyway. This neighborhood is not a common whereabout for prostitutes. Roger had likely found his way here after coming back from another client.

That is no valid reason to come back. 

Not even for Freddie.

★ ☆★

A week goes by before there is a hesitant knock on Freddie's office door.

To Freddie's amazement it is not Greta or his 1pm patient showing up, but Roger. 

Roger, who had not once escaped Freddie's mind ever since that day on the street with the police. Roger, with his beautiful eyes and bones jutting out from under his skin.

The same Roger who is now shaking and obviously sweating though his thin layers of clothing when he enters Freddie's office. 

Freddie knows then and there that Roger is in deep shit.

He drops his pen on his desk and climbs to his feet to get Roger a glass of water. His lips are chapped dry with dehydration as he offers Freddie a gruff hello. 

"Roger." Freddie breathes. "I worried about you."

Roger can barely offer Freddie a weak smile. 

He looks even worse than he did eight days ago. Today he is an outright mess, his clothes hang off his frame, he is still tremendously skinny for a man his size, there are bruises under his eyes also matching marks leading down his neck and disappearing under the line of his stained sweater. If Roger was shaking from the cold last time, he is now trembling in cold sweat. 

Freddie shuffles closer to him and offers Roger the glass of water. 

It is tap, but Roger doesn't seem to notice while he gulps the whole thing down his throat with a breathy sigh, before handing Freddie the empty glass back. 

"Roger... I told you that you need to make an appointment if you want to come here. I'm not sure if—" Freddie starts weakly, trying to keep himself from sounding too enthusiastic about seeing the blond man before him again. In only a sweater and torn jeans this time. 

It clearly wasn't the right move to make.

Roger turns back on his heel to leave immediately, muttering that this was a stupid in the first place. 

In that moment, Freddie panics.

He can tell from the lack of basic care Roger can attain for himself that he needs immediate help. Letting him out into the world after coming all this way, from wherever he came from would not be wise. 

"Wait- dear. Have a seat. I can squeeze you in during my lunch break."

Freddie restrains himself from grabbing onto the mans arm. Fearing that his skin there is also marked with worrisome bruises under his clothes. 

Roger stops with his hand on the doorknob, slowly twisting his body to look at Freddie from under his lashes.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" Freddie beams. 

He gestures towards the couch Roger had occupied the last time he was there. 

"Please take a seat, you don't look too well right now." 

"Bit peachy." Roger smirks.

Freddie sighs in relief when he begins staggering towards the couch once more, ignoring the helping hand Freddie offers to support him.

He is moving uneasily with whatever injuries are plaguing him under his clothes.

The clearness of eyes confirm he isn't high right now, but that doesn't deny possible use of drugs in the past. 

He flops onto the couch with a long drawn out groan. Settling with his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms to wrap around his knees. 

Freddie makes him another drink, before he takes place on the stool in front of Roger. 

Roger is watching him with the same amount of interest as Freddie is studying him. As if they are two exotic zoo animals with cages right opposite one another. The tiger staring down the polar bear. The mutual interest and cutting edge of potential damger makes the air between them almost electric. 

Freddie folds his hands in his lap. He keeps his eyes on Roger, instead of the yellow, purple fingermarks on his neck. 

"So Roger,what made you decide to come back?"

Roger sighs and when he does, his entire body deflates with the motion. His bruised face is half hidden by the transparent glass of water. 

"A few days ago," 

★ ☆★

_Roger wakes up to agonizing pain shooting from his middle to the rest of his body._

_The sound of his own hitched breaths ring through his ears._

_When he opens his eyes he is met with a familiar sight. An unknown man, red in the face and greasy is grunting on top of him. Face uncomfortably close to Rogers while he forces himself in him._

_Roger begins to panic._

_His chest heaves with the effort to breathe. The pain so intense it paralyzes him underneath the weight of his assaulter._

_Roger only remembers falling asleep last night, while he was high up in the clouds on a dream inducing high._

_He doesn't know how the man got his way with him._

_How he got into the apartment, how he had Rogers clothes discarded to the side and his legs forcibly held apart._

_Roger is in the exact same spot he fell asleep in. He knows the rotten smell of the apartment and the pattern of the cracks in the ceiling over the mans shoulder. He is forced down to the worn mattress on the dirty floor. Arms pinned down by his head and preventing him from moving away— if he wasn't frozen in place, while he is being teared in two._

_Humiliation washes over Roger. Listening to the man panting about how tight he is. How good he feels. How he is going to full him up._

_"Mine. You're mine."_

_Roger attempts to push him away from him. But his benumbed body barely manages to keep on breathing. Let alone fight off a man twice Rogers weight._

_All he manages to do is flex his fingers, numb from the blocked blood flow._

_The down of a heroin high keeps him exhausted and subdued. His brain has barely recovered from the toxins and his body cannot function without the brain._

_The shock of the pain convulsing through his body makes Roger lay completely still._

_The man above him flashes him his yellow teeth when he realizes Rogers has woken up. Rupturing Rogers insides mercilessly. His penis dragging against Rogers raw inner walls._

_"Someone has decided to join us." He grunts over his left shoulder in between thrusts that leave Roger gurgling on his own spit._

_The other person in the room, is Richard, who scoffs._

_"Don't expect much from him today. He isn't on anything right now."_

_The pain becomes unbearable the longer it drags on without the numbing of heroin in his bloodstream. Roger wonders if they had bothered to prep him at all before the ordeal, or that it is blood sticking between his legs._

_He shifts his face away from the mans to pant shallow breaths into the ratty pillow._

_His blurry eyes shift over to Richard before unconsciousness can overtake him. Richard is perched up on the stool next to the mattress, counting a stack of money on his lap._

_"Richard." Roger whispers hoarsely. His voice barely carrying further than his own muddled brain. "Help. Help me."_

_When he takes notice of Rogers whimpers, he tuts._

_He leans forward in his chair until he can press a kiss to Rogers sickly pale face, all the while he's still being held down and used like a rag doll._

_"Be a good pretty boy for me and let him finish. Else you'll get no smack afterwards."_

_Roger isn't too proud to beg for heroin. The sweet relief he will need if he wants to survive the pain he is enduring now._

_It is close to impossible to talk while he is thrusted into viciously, but when a large hand comes up to wrap around Rogers throat and block his windpipe, he is done for it._

_He gags, gurgles and splutters._

_One of his arms is now freed from the mans grip. But the pain, unbearable suffering tearing pain, prevents Roger from successfully clawing the hand around his neck away. Richard doesn't say a word, still counting the money he has. The only sound in the room is that of Roger struggling to breathe and that of the man on top of him grunting in his ear._

_Roger lets his limbs fall flat against the mattress when the lack of oxygen makes his vision fuss black around the edges._

_Just before the blissful darkness overtakes him, Roger realizes that he is in too deep._


	2. Of Detachment and Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger comes back to Freddie’s office, showing serious signs of withdrawal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi readers! I’m really happy to see you guys here again. I would like to remind everyone of the tags and warnings, because they count for every chapter. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and enjoy.

There are several telltale signs of drugs withdrawal. 

Sweating, nausea, dilated pupils, insomnia, muscle aches, anxiety. 

Before him sits Roger— worn to the bone in the same stiff position. His feet jitter on the couch cushions with tremendous anxious energy after telling Freddie what had brought him back to the office today. 

He looks a little green around the edges, Freddie must admit the story made his own stomach twist as well. 

"That was three days ago." Rogers elaborates. His chin rests on his knees and he avoids meeting Freddie's eyes. With his already mysteriously stained sweater, Roger wipes the thin layer of sweat from his forehead. "I just don't know what to do now." 

"You're in withdrawal." 

Roger seems to struggle keeping himself in an upright position. He slowly allows his head and knees to lean sideways against the armrest. 

Freddie's hands twitch in his lap to keep himself from reaching out. 

He just watches Roger and Roger in return watches him. Long eyelashes shadow the wide pupils surrounded by a ring of blue. His lips are chapped raw and nose is running. 

"Freddie?"

Freddie offers a smile, despite feeling sick to his stomach. "Yes?" 

"I've been sober for three days, but I don't know how much longer I can do it." Rogers voice comes out as a thin whisper. "I don't want to keep living like that." 

It feels as if all of Freddie's training has gone out of the window.

It is hard for him to keep an emotional distance from Roger. Firstly because he is not a real patient and secondly because Roger looks one breath away from his death. 

Freddie reaches for his cup of tea, wrapping his numb fingers around the heat of his cup.

It doesn't help. 

"I'm not specialized in withdrawing from drugs, but I can help you find a different therapist, I can be here for you as a friend and we can find a support group together." 

Roger blinks lazily. "A support group?" 

"Yes." Freddie perks up. "You attend meetings every other day where you will meet people with similar addiction problems. It has proven to help people set goals for their sobriety and that it helps talking to people who understand what you yourself have gone through." 

He climbs to his feet to find the pamphlets from the second drawer in his desk.

"It will help you set a routine for yourself. They will hold you accountable if you relapse or not show up."

The papers are neatly ordered underneath a stack of files. He turns back to Roger and shows him his four options in the area.

Roger scans over the pamphlets while he listens. 

"If there is one you like, I will give them a call and sign you up. You won't need an ID or money, you just need to show up." Freddie explains hastily, before sitting back down in his chair to not crowd Roger. 

Half lidded eyes move from left to the right on the colorful paper. 

Roger holds up the purple advert for 'Together not Alone.' He shows it to Freddie. "This one any good?"

"It sure is, 3 times a week, they offer dinner during meetings and have many connections to rehab centers if you ever decide to take that road."

Roger seems doubtful of that, handing Freddie back his stack of pamphlets with a hesitant smile.

"Can you give them a call?"

"Of course, of course." Freddie puts the stack on his desk, he then scribbles the address of Together not Alone on a piece of paper for Roger. "I will give myself up as your confidant. That means that they will give me a call if you don't show up to one of the meetings."

"Okay." 

"I'm also gonna ask you to keep seeing me regularly. Twice a week perhaps? So we can talk about your wellbeing." 

"As my therapist?" 

"As a friend."

That makes a smile quirk at the corner of Rogers lips. He takes the piece of paper Freddie offers and pockets it in his jeans. 

He then cuddles back against the armrest with a sigh, looking more tired than before. 

Freddie finds himself softening at the sight.

"Do you have a place to sleep?"

"Yes." Roger says without skipping a beat.

Freddie watches him closely. Taking in the rapidness of his breaths and the wriggling of his toes in his shoes through the thin fabric.

"Is it a safe place?" 

"Are you gonna keep asking difficult questions?" Roger whispers without any heat behind the words.

Freddie snorts, nodding.

"Absolutely." 

★ ☆★

"Look at you!"

Freddie laughs warmly as he comes strolling into the kitchen where Brian is preparing sandwiches.

He twists around at the sound of Freddie's voice, still sickly thin and quite sluggish from the painkillers pumped into his system to make his abdomen pain bearable. 

"It's good to see you back on your feet."

"Barely." Brian says, demonstrating how he is leaning heavily against the counter. 

Freddie quickly stalks over to wrap a supportive arm around his waist. Brian smiles and slings his own arm over Freddie shoulder. 

He props his head on Freddie's. Smiling. 

"Just making your and Johns lunch for tomorrow."

"Such a sweet housewife." Freddie grins up at him. 

He watches Brian butter up the sandwiches laid out on the two plates before them. He gives them one layer of ham, cheese, mayonnaise, a tomato and a dash of iceberg lettuce. Four of the sandwiches are stacked into Johns lunch box. The remaining four in Freddie's package. 

"Oh darling, I'm gonna need a bigger lunch tomorrow." 

"Oh?" The two of them jump when suddenly John is standing in the doorway wet hair dripping on his bathrobe. Fresh out of the shower.

Freddie has a hand on his chest. Gasping. "You need to stop doing that!" 

"Sorry."

They watch John roll his eyes, before they turn back to the counter where they continue tending to their sandwiches. 

Freddie and Brian both begin working on fresh slices from the plastic breadsack.

John shuffles closer until he can look over their shoulders.

"So, what's the extra lunch for?"

"Roger." Freddie says simply. 

John and Brian share a look. Freddie makes an effort to ignore their judgement by keeping his eyes strictly focused on the sandwich before him. His knife sliding smoothly through the airy dough and the 

He makes a mental note to take a package of crisps with him as well.

"Fred."

Freddie pushes himself away from Brians side to rummage through the cabinet on the left under the sink. There he finds a stray pack of salty crisps and two Buenos. 

"Freddie."

"What is it, dear?" 

He straightens his back to look at John— who's got his arms crossed and his hip cocked out. 

"You know what I'm going to say."

Freddie shrugs. He puts the snacks on the counter top. Brian packs them into his lunchbox without a word.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

John leans forward to press a kiss to Freddie's cheek. When he pulls away he smiles sadly.

"Just be careful." 

It is Freddie's turn to roll his eyes, before he wraps an arm around Johns waist for a proper kiss. 

★ ☆★

"What usually happens during real sessions?" 

They are back in their usual seats. Roger on the couch, munching on the sandwich he had reluctantly accepted. Freddie is in the green armchair opposite of him. 

It is nothing like real sessions with patients.

Freddie would have their file open on his desk and his notebook in his lap to scribble words down to type out later. He wouldn't be eating during a session either, wouldn't bring lunch for his patients or expect them to take their shoes off by the door to let them be more comfortable. 

"Well," Freddie breaks his train of thoughts to reply. "I'd ask you to tell me something about yourself." 

Roger smiles cheekily. "You first."

It has only been a few days since their last appointment, but Roger looks infinitely better. 

Freddie can't help but smile at the sight of him. He is evidently more present and alert. The lazy far away look in his eyes has passed on with his slowly fading withdrawal symptoms. He doesn't look much cleaner or less skinny, but at least he is starting to look sober. 

"I'm Freddie Mercury, I have five cats and two boyfriends whom I all love equally. I studied at the Imperial College. I'm now a psychologist and I like to paint in my spare time." 

He points at the framed painting behind Roger, who flops over to stare at it.

"Whoa." Comes the amazed breathy smile.

Freddie looks up at it as well after he is done observing the knobs of Rogers spine through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

The painting is that of a large landscape. The beach in the middle, overlapped by the cold North Sea and on the left the large white mountain ascending shadows over the sand.

Two figures walk the shore. Both long haired and holding hands. One tall and lanky, the other shorter and more build.

They are mere black figures, rather than recognizable people.

"You're an amazing painter."

Roger turns around and the twinkle in his eyes sing praises. Freddie feels his insides warm up at the mere sight of such simple adoration.

"Thank you, Roger."

"Are that your boyfriends? They look happy."

Freddie's eyes trail up at the painting again. He can almost still smell the salt of the water and feel the coarse sand between his toes. The brush gently held between his index finger and thumb, the sound of the waves crashing ashore alongside the calm strokes on his canvas.

"Yes. The one with all the hair is Brian on the left. The smaller one is John, he's a 68 year old trapped in the body of a young adult, I tell you."

Roger chuckles, hanging eagerly to every spoken word. Freddie lets him bask in the rare open acceptance that is hard to come by in public. 

"John works as an engineer. He might be the most innovative and creative person I know. When he isn't at his day job, he's always fiddling around with something. Brian on the other hand has been quite sick for the past few months. The doctors don't know what it is, they even tried surgery and couldn't find anything. We look after him now, but he can't work. He made your sandwich today." 

Roger stops chewing mid-bite, smiling behind the bread. 

"Tell him he makes a lovely sammy." 

"Will do." Freddie says solemnly. He watches Roger munch on the bread carefully, as if restraining himself from overeating. "If you can't finish it now, I can wrap them up so you can take them with you."

Roger gingerly puts the sandwich down once the words have left Freddie's lips. 

"Thank you."

He puts a hand on his belly and rubs it as if having just finished a big Christmas dinner instead of half a sandwich. 

"Absolutely no problem at all, Darling. Now," Freddie refills Rogers cup of tea with more hot water from the kettle. "It is your turn to tell me something about yourself." 

Roger blinks at Freddie, reaches for his teacup, takes another second in which he blows the hot steam away, before he lets out a chest deflating sigh. 

"Well, I'm Roger. I'm a prostitute." 

Freddie's training finally comes in handy when he refrains himself from showing his shattered heart on his face. 

He reaches out to lay a biscuit on Rogers little plate, alongside an encouraging smile. 

"What else?" 

"I don't know." Roger shrugs.

His physic tells he is closed off with his arms crossed over his chest and legs drawn to his chest. 

Freddie hums, taking his own tea cup in his hands and stirring the sugar around with the tiny silver spoon. The clacking of his cup is the only notable sound in the room. Roger is taking great interest in the dust balls on the carpet. 

"C'mon, Darling. Tell me something about your life."

Roger still hesitates to answer, when he does he is talking into his cup rather than facing Freddie. 

"My life is unbearable without smack." 

"Smack?"

Rogers cheeks heat up for other reasons than the tea. "Heroin." 

After nodding carefully, Freddie leans forward in his chair and reaches out to lay a hand on Rogers knee in reassurance. Offering a smile as well. 

"I don't judge you, okay? You are here because you want to get better. I want the same for you. We are friends, right?"

Roger swallows down the lump in his throat with a large gulp of tea. 

"Yes."

Freddie squeezes his knee and can't ignore the way Roger is trying very hard not to squirm at the touch. "Good." He retreats his hand as fast as it came. Rogers shoulders relax when he is given back his personal space. "So you have been going to the support group, you see people who are going through similar obstacles you are facing. Like them, you want to get better. Do you have a plan on how to achieve this?"

"Not really." Roger shakes his head once and looks slightly guilty about the fact. 

All Freddie can offer is a reassuring smile. 

He leans all the way back into his chair and keeps the calm on his face as to not alarm Roger with the seriousness of the topic he wants to tackle today.

Over their past three meetings Freddie has learned Roger is quite the conversationalist as long as they avoid the sticky issues at hand.

"Where do you live right now?" 

"With Richard." 

Freddie remembers the name from the memory Roger had shared the other day. The man who had counted the money he had earned from letting Roger get raped in front of him.

It makes Freddie's blood crawl. 

If he had a notepad, he would write the name down and circle it in red. 

"Richard. Right." He nods tightly at Roger who definitely isn't looking at him. Not after the air in the room has gone serious. "Does he know about your profession?"

The pauses Roger likes to drop mid conversation usually don't mean any good.

He taps his fingernails onto the side of his porcelain cup. The soft clicking seems to momentarily ground him and work through the shame flaming his cheeks bright red.

It is a dire pity to see someone so beautiful recoil in embarrassment of their own being.

Freddie almost takes mercy on him and stops prying, until Roger decides to open his mouth. 

"Richard is my boyfriend."

Freddie frowns. "Oh!"

Roger hasn't finished, he clears his throat. "He is also my dealer and organizes a group of... _us_ under his roof, we grew up as siblings."

"More prostitutes?" Freddie asks. 

Roger doesn't seem to like the chilled tone Freddie's voice takes on and he scrambles to explain. 

"No, look. He gives us shelter, food, safe drugs. Sometimes we go out of the house to find money, other times Richard has clients for us. You see, we give him money for our share of rent and the drugs. He looks after us and after me. He isn't a pimp." 

Freddie has sick crawling up his throat, leaving an acid aftertaste from Rogers explanation. 

He fears the worst about this Richard person.

"When did this _arrangement_ start?"

"When I was 16." Roger carefully avoids Freddie's eyes so he doesn't have to see them nearly pop out of his skull. "When my mother passed away."

It is as if Freddie is putting together a puzzle and he doesn't have any of the outer pieces to make sense of the inner pieces he is slowly but surely gathering from these in depth conversations. 

"How did you go from your mum passing away to finding yourself working for Richard as a prostitute?" He struggles to keep his tone neutral. Yet with the right amount of self restriction, Freddie manages. 

Roger is naturally hesitant to share more. Freddie can tell from the way he is worrying his lip between his teeth and hiding half his face behind his cup.

Freddie can imagine Roger has never shared his story before. From experience he knows it is quite daunting to lay your whole history out to someone you barely know. Even though Freddie is not his actual therapist, even as so called 'friends' it is very confrontational to spell out where and why your problems started. As if peeling the layers off an union and finding the further you go, the more bitter tears prick at the corners of your eyes. 

"Richard took me and my mum in when she ran from my father. He used to hurt her, so she sought her way out." 

Rogers blue eyes are looking up at Freddie from under the curtain of eyelashes. As if waiting for a reaction.

Freddie calculates his every move. He keeps his breathing steady and doesn't tap his foot on the carpet like one would do when they are nervous. He wants to appear calm for Roger, non-judgmental and unbothered. 

When no reaction comes, Roger dares to continue. 

"I was quite young at the time, so I don't know how my mum found Richard, she couldn't afford anywhere else. We ran with the clothes on our back, y'know. One day she picked me up from school and we just didn't go home. She had packed nothing. All we had were the contents from her purse. I remember we went to my grandmothers house, but she told us to go immediately."

"Why?"

"She kept seeing my fathers car drive around the block. He would have killed her, you know? My mum I mean. He was possessive like that. We were afraid to go to family after that and my mum didn't have many friends, or a job for that matter. No education, nothing that could help her get on her own feet." Freddie observes the cool-closed-off tone of Rogers voice. Like he is keeping an emotional distance by pretending the story is not truly about him. "I don't know how she found Richard in the end. She never did tell me, but he offered refuge in his home for us. My mother would give him money for our share of the rent. We'd get food, a mattress to sleep on, there was always someone there to take me to school if my mum was busy working." 

Freddie is recoils at the question that slips out from between his lips before he can reconsider it more carefully.

"Was she a prostitute too?"

"If she was, she never allowed me to see it." 

Roger hums, he takes a long careful sip from his drink with a thoughtful frown. 

It feels like he is back in university. Studying tapes of people's emotional reactions to long outbursts of conversations for research papers. Freddie had always felt slightly guilty watching those videos. As if he were prying knowledge off of them without their consent. 

With Roger he feels no different.

Watching him pick at the hole in his sock, poke his pinky finger through it and wear it out further. 

He is thinking, brow furrowing further each passing second. 

"Everyone who lives with Richard prostitutes themselves for him. So I guess my mum was no different."

"I'm sorry." Is the only sincere thing Freddie could possibly think of saying.

Roger offers him a half smile. "It's not your fault." 

"I feel like I have dimmed your mood." 

"No, no that's not your fault." He continues to wedge a bigger hole into his striped sock. "It's just that I think that this is not what she would have wanted for me."

Freddie lowers his own tea cup. 

His stomach is in too many knots to sufficiently keep anything down. "Would she be disappointed?"

Roger nods slowly. "She wanted what was best for me."

"I am sure that she would have understood the circumstances you are under. She passed away and you had to vent for yourself, so you did what you had to survive with the tools you had at the time." 

"When mum suddenly died I was expected to pitch in and cover the rent she had paid for me while she was alive." 

Roger lowers his tea cup to the coffee table between them. He shrugs.

"I quit school and did whatever was asked of me, because Richard always looked after us. He had always been fond of me, so I knew I was protected while I lived there."

The words are spoken so casually that they almost don't register with Freddie. 

"Then he gave you drugs?" 

"Everyone in the house does drugs. It was normal, I saw it every day and it made the job bearable... It made me forget how much I missed my mum." Roger holds his shoulders up, playing nonchalant. 

_So normal that he doesn't notice the damage it has caused already._ Freddie thinks.

A moment of silence falls over them. Despite trying to keep the emotions out of the conversation, Roger struggles to regulate his breathing. His chest heaves quite rapidly and his hands are picking at the end of his already worn sweater. 

Freddie doesn't want to make the afternoon any more exhausting for Roger.

He gets to his feet and ignores the shuddering flinch the sudden movement elects from Roger. He apologizes with a fleeting smile, before gathering their cups of tea to put them back in the tea corner to be cleaned later. 

The aftermath of the conversation makes Freddie's limbs heavier. Or so it feels like when he drags himself across the office. Blue eyes burning holes in his back. 

Freddie can't say anything about the staring. 

He knows he has plucked Roger apart today, partly by accident and for some part on purpose. 

It should go unsaid that the conversations concerning the root of Rogers addiction are essential to his recovery, but that doesn't make the talks any easier.

Freddie returns to his seat with another biscuit for Roger to put on top of the other one he didn't eat. 

Roger has yet to find a regular breathing pattern again, yet he manages a grateful smile for the offered cookie. 

"Thanks, Fred."

The nickname comes out smooth and so easily that he might have said it a hundred times before.

When he is in his own chair again, Freddie smiles back. 

"Roger, you say Richard protects you and shelters you, right?"

"Right."

"Do you think Richard will help you get better? Even after he was the one to introduce you to drugs and prostitution." 

The smile isn't completely wiped off of Rogers face, but only a shadow of it remains.

He takes a quick glance at the clock above Freddie's desk and he quickly climbs to his feet. "I think my time is up."

"Don't you think the only way you can change your life is to get away from that situation?" Before Freddie can convince him to stop, Roger is already by the door pushing his toes into his shoes in a desperate need to get away as fast as possible.

Instead of trying to force Roger to stay— which isn't truly an option, because he isn't a real patient and Roger is free to go whenever he wants to. Freddie decides to play along and ignore the 20 minutes he has left for Roger, to pack the remainders of their lunch for Roger to take home with him. It isn't much, half a sandwich, a package of crisps and the two biscuits. But at least Freddie knows that today Roger won't be out on an empty stomach.

When Roger has his shoes on and coat wrapped around his shoulders, he turns to Freddie.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Freddie reassures. He also gets to his feet to hand Roger his lunch package with a smile. "Be safe and don't forget your support group meeting tomorrow."

The package of food disappears deep inside Rogers coat.

Freddie wonders if Roger will be off to find a client somewhere downtown with his pirate smile and delicate features. The secrets of his body are hidden under his oversized coat, but his face is enough to allure many. 

_Be safe. Be safe. Be safe._

The horror stories in the papers and on the news of recent crimes against prostitutes replay in Freddie's mind. He thinks of one of the white linen covered bodies as Rogers.

"Just be careful, alright?" 

"I always am." He chuckles. "Thank you, for the food and the everything. I'll find a way to repay you some time." 

Roger then opens the door and steps out of the office into the long brown hallway, but Freddie doesn't let him go without yelling after him. "No need for that, silly!"

Before Rogers oversized trench disappears around the corner, he turns around to send him a playful wink. 

Freddie pretends to chuckle, while he actually feels hollow inside.

★ ☆★

_Ring Ring_

"Who is it?"

Brian twists his head in the direction of the phone. John shushes him while stroking his hair away from his forehead. 

"Probably for Freddie again, close your eyes babe."

He doesn't have to be told twice, Brian lets his eyes drift closed and he curls into himself again, while John pets the smooth skin from his skull. 

Freddie has bounced his way to the phone to answer its ringing. Goliath cuddled against his chest. 

He takes it as quietly as he can as to not disturb Brian.

"Freddie Mercury speaking."

" _Mr Mercury? This is Together not Alone speaking, we would like to let you know that Roger Taylor has attended his support group today._ "

Freddie can't stop himself from beaming. "That's wonderful. Thank you." 

He twirls the phone cord between his fingers and ignores Johns cocked up eyebrow from where he is sitting in front of the couch with his fingers tangled in Brians hair. 

" _That's no problem Mr Mercury. Roger has three new appointments booked for the next week, which he has gotten a schedule of— just for your own information. We wish you a good evening now, well wishes._ "

"Good evening madam, thank you again."

The phone is put back in the receiver with an echoing click. 

The living room is quiet besides the low blues music coming the radio station John had picked earlier. 

It's not quite winter, but the cold is creeping up on them faster than he was prepared for.

Freddie finds himself yearning for warmth. He falls back to his knees to haul himself against Johns side, Goliath runs off with a meow, Freddie tugs him close for a hug to steal his warmth. 

John oof's. 

But he smiles down at Freddie who only tries to snuggle closer and climbs into his lap. Johns smile switches into a grin. He wraps his free arm around Freddie's middle to keep him close. 

This is arguably Freddie's favorite place in the world. 

He lets his cold feet rest against Johns calve, who hisses. "Arse."

"Well, you love me."

John bites his lip, because he cannot deny such a thing. 

Freddie finds Johns free hand— that is the one he isn't using to skillfully massage Brians soul out of his skull, to splay under Freddie's shirt. He splays his palm flat over the small of his back and rests his chin on top of Freddie's head.

It is easy to wrap his arms around Johns neck and pull himself impossibly closer. Freddie freely sniffs his cologne and the sweat he hadn't washed off after work yet. He soaks his nose against the most delicate part of Johns neck, feeling all his sorrows seep away. 

He lets his mind shut down for the moment. Noting how Johns heartbeats easy rhythm slows his own down too. 

"I love you." Freddie says. 

John echoes his words back at him, even though Freddie cannot see his face from his position, he knows John is smiling. Slightly swaying him to the blues in the background.

"I love you too." Brian slurs out of the blue.

Freddie and John look up at him and chuckle, noting Brian hadn't even bothered lifting his head up, let alone open his eyes.

"Go back to sleep, you're sick." Freddie says. 

He reaches out to stroke his palm over Brians pale cheek. His hand glides smoothly over the dry skin. 

"You go 'sleep." Brian mumbles.

Freddie chuckles again, but this time it is cut short by a concerned frown coming from John.

"You do look tired, Fred. Is work wearing you out?"

His first instinct is to say no. Freddie knows for a fact that John does much harder work and makes much longer days. To compare the two would almost be insulting.

But John stops playing with Brians hair, which earns him a lazy grumble, to wrap two arms around Freddie's waist.

"Talk to me?" He asks.

Freddie leans forward to press one closed mouthed kiss to Johns lips.

There's no fireworks in the background or any of the corny American movie stuff, but Freddie feels warmth spread from his lips to his cheeks and butterflies flutter about in his stomach. Even after a million shared kisses.

When he pulls away, he smiles. 

"You'll be mad."

"I won't be mad." John tangles his fingers in the roots of Freddie's hair, combing the thick mane back with his fingers. 

"He might be mad." Brian comments flatly.

Freddie glares at him from over Johns shoulder. While he is still thinking of a clever response, John tugs on his hair and forces Freddie to look at him. Despite how young John is, he is worn and his eyes are too wise for his fragile age. 

"It's about the hooker again, isn't it?" 

Freddie could decide to deny it, but it would only take so long for John to sniff out his bullshit.

Pulling away slightly so that Freddie can actually look John in the eye, whilst still sitting perched on his lap, he nods. 

"His name is Roger. And I worry about him."

"Why?" John asks, his fingers dance through the curls teasing at the tips of Freddie's hair.

"I don't know where to start." 

Freddie tries not to squish John underneath him with his full weight, but he can't help but deflate with a long suffering sigh, that only seems to fuel the worry in Johns utterly beautiful eyes. 

"Try me."

"We had this conversation in which I asked how he was going to maintain his sobriety, but he is making no plans to leave his boyfriend who has also been his dealer since he was sixteen— which by the way probably means they had at least a ten year age difference."

"Yikes." John grimaces. 

"I know." 

Freddie worries his lip between his front teeth. Bruising them even more than they already are.

"And it's like, _Richard_ provides him shelter and 'protection', but he's told me disturbing things of what happen in that place, I feel too foul even repeating. And I see the bruises with my own eyes, they are all over him. He weighs no more than a 120 pounds (55 kilos) and he cannot stay sober if he sleeps with his drugs dealer under the same roof."

Brian seems to perk up a little, finding the strength to pull himself up enough to look at Freddie. "Sounds to me like he uses drugs to control Roger."

Freddie nods in agreement and he only realizes he had worked himself up again when John untangles one of his hands from Freddie's hair to tug his lip from between his teeth. 

The concerned frown that always seems to set on Johns forehead will cause early wrinkles some day.

"You really shouldn't be taking your work home with you, there's only so much you can help people, Fred. You're not Jesus, or Gandhi or anyone in a position to safe the life of someone who doesn't really want to be saved."

"Roger wants to be saved." Freddie interjects curtly. "And he is not my patient."

"Don't say that too loud, if the office finds out you'll lose your job." Brian is only half joking as he says it. 

Freddie groans.

He glances between his two boyfriends, desperately gesturing with his hands. 

"They won't find out, Darlings. I wrote him on my patients list, I even faked an ID number and drafted a whole fake file for him, which sits unsuspectingly in my office."

The piece of information doesn't reassure the other two as Freddie had hoped, but instead makes Johns jaw drop to the floor. Even Brian is stunned silent for once in his short life. 

Freddie grimaces as he braces himself for the yelp that follows. 

"Freddie! That's fraud!" John shrieks. "You'll lose your license if you're lucky enough not to go to jail." 

"You're all worried about the wrong things, darling." He pretends to brush off some dust from his shoulder, trying for the nonchalant stance Roger had taken that afternoon as well. 

Just like that afternoon, it doesn't work. 

A moment of blues filled silence passes between them, until Freddie catches himself in the reflection of Johns pupils.

"I'm worried about you." 

"Oh Darling." Freddie cradles Johns cheeks between the warm palms of his hands and squishes him. "Worry about Brian, political tensions, your job and nuclear warfare." 

John shakes his head with an airy chuckle, "That's for the weekends, Fred."

Freddie let's himself be pulled flush against his chest for another toe curling kiss. 

They continue to make out on the floor under the blues tunes, until a sudden loud snore from Brian pulls them apart to muffle their laughter. 

★ ☆★

_Roger once thought he was a strong willed person._

_He always demanded to know why. Why did he have to wear his uniform? Why couldn't he have two candy bars after dinner? Why wouldn't he be allowed to read another book before bed?_

_His mother used to suffer through hours of arguing. He always loved to challenge their dynamics and display his powerful stubbornness._

_In the end he was proven wrong._

_His mother had died unexpectedly. Leaving Roger with nothing in the claws of Richard Wright in his one bedroom apartment inhabited by six others._

_The sudden lack of income had limited Rogers options._

_With no contact with his family, no mother, no other place to stay and caught in the sticky strings of grief, he coerced into prostitution before he had even dared to question how and why he got there._

_Many variables came to play in this._

_He wanted more of the drugs Richard had let him try the weekend his mother passed away, so he could forget. So he could feel better. Now Roger craves more of the vein numbing, mind stopping, voices dimming euphoria. The urge for more has his heart pounding and his nails digging into the soft insides of his wrists._

_The promise of more drugs from the only other person in the world he trusts made him lose sight of reality._

_It made Roger blind to Richards motives. Who at the time was stronger, loomed over him like a predator that would stare down its prey. Waiting for the right moment to pounce._

_"I don't know... Richard."_

_Roger has a hard time meeting Richards eyes, until the taller man pushes his chin up with his forefinger._

_He smiles down at Roger. Warm and reassuring despite that Rogers blood had run cold._

_"I'll be in the room the whole time. You have nothing to worry about— hey. Hey." He thumbs away the two tears threatening to fall from the corners of Rogers eyes. "When you're done I got something special for you. I'll give you some of my extra special stash."_

_Rogers heart is beating agonizingly hard. He can hear the client unclasping his belt around the corner and his chest begins to heave against Richards._

_"But Richard..."_

_"Is there anything in the world I haven't done for you Roger? Can't you give me this one thing back? One simple thing."_

_Before Roger knows it he is crowded against the wall. Forced to shrink in on himself while Richard barks in his face. So close that their noses are nearly touching._

_"You don't see Lora or Janice complaining. Do you? They do this every single day. They're grateful to work for me and live under my roof. Aren't you grateful?" He asks._

_"Yes I am."_

_The grip on his arms tighten. "What are you grateful for?"_

_"For you." Roger breathes. "Your protection, your shelter, you care for me."_

_"So you will do it? No pouting, no whining, no crying."_

_Roger nods frantically. As if a switch has been flipped, Richards morbid face transforms into a smile. The heated tension between the two of them melts away and he releases the iron grip he had on Rogers forearm._

_Roger nearly flinches when Richard bends down to kiss the crown of his head._

_"That's why you're my favorite."_

_The client had apparently overheard part of the conversation. When Roger rounds the corner with Richards hand on the small of his back, he is pushed onto his knees as soon as he reaches the mattress the client has occupied._

_Roger chest and face get pressed into the mattress._

_Richard keeps Roger down, while the broad man takes place behind him and begins to undo his zipper._

_"Don't worry, I don't mind if you cry a little."  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleaaase leave me a comment to let me know what u thought!
> 
> I am thinking about either updating every Wednesday or Sunday. Anyone got any suggestions what they prefer for updating day? Thank you all and please be kind in the comment section ❤️


	3. Of Crumbling and Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger and Freddie bond, but worry for him colors Freddie’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! I hope u have a happy read. For this chapter I did a lot of research so I hope you guys like it. Please enjoy!

It is more usual for Freddie and Roger to sit inside during their appointment. 

The late autumn makes it unpleasant to stay in the cold for too long, especially considering how poorly Roger dresses himself.

But occasionally they find themselves sitting in the windowsill, sharing a smoke and feet dangling over the brick wall of the first floor. 

Today is one of those days.

"So tell me how Richard is doing."

Roger passes him the cigarette and huffs in what could be perceived as annoyance, but Freddie finds teetering on the edge of fondness. "Are we going to talk about this again?" 

"Well, it is difficult to maintain sobriety with a drugs dealing boyfriend." 

All Freddie earns is a shrug. 

Their bodies sit flush against one another to fit in the small space of the window. It is quite uncomfortable to sit on the thin edge, but Freddie can't complain. Not with Roger half leaning against him to keep himself up.

"To be honest," Roger glances sideways at him. The shadows under his eyes are almost masked by the long overcast of his eyelashes. "I want to quit the drugs. I want to be _normal_ , but I have nowhere else to go. Living under Richards roof means living under his rules."

The thick smoke curls into the depths of Freddie's lungs. 

He exhales slowly. 

The white clouds puff out of his nose and his slightly parted lips, before he hands the cigarette back to Roger. 

There is no reason for them to share a cigarette when they usually finish Freddie's pack anyway, but over the past weeks it has become somewhat of a tradition to pass the smoke between them until it is finished.

"Like," Roger leans his head against Freddie's shoulder. "It's fucking unbearable to sleep with all those people completely sober."

Freddie, suddenly feeling warmth spread from where Rogers hair brushes his neck, stays completely still in an attempt to make the touch last. He even takes another drag from the cigarette, instead of passing it to the other man. 

His silence makes Roger squirm. 

Freddie hadn't even noticed that he had been staring off into space for the last few minutes. There is a knot in his stomach that he can't seem to get rid of, not ever since meeting Roger and knowing the line of danger he is in. 

Every conversation Freddie hopes to hear a miracle has occurred. 

That Roger has left Richard and found a job at the local supermarket. Or something else mildly boring but tremendously safe.

"I know you're disappointed in me."

Freddie shifts to look at him and protest, but Roger brushes him off with a flick of his hand.

"I wish it was easy, but it's not. I can't just _go_. He's the only person who's always looked after me. Always had a place for me and loved me, no matter what." 

"Roger, I am not disappointed in you." 

Big blue eyes stare at him from under heavy lids. Freddie has never had the opportunity to look at Roger so closely. He can see the traces of faded youth freckles under his cheekbones. The specks of light in his eyes and each individual hair of his eyelashes. 

Roger frowns, forcing the cigarette butt from Freddie's lips after he has been hogging it. 

"You're not?"

"No." Freddie quirks a smile and reaches for his pack to grab another smoke, when Roger finishes his in one long drag. "I'm worried."

Roger throws the butt onto the street. Freddie doesn't have the heart to tell him off for littering. "Don't you have your own shit to be worried about?" 

"I'm starting to believe you are part of my shit." 

"Flattering." Roger fails to hide how flustered he has become. He silently takes the cigarette Freddie offers and cups his hands around the lighter when Freddie tries to flick it on for him. 

When Freddie pulls away he mercifully doesn't mention the bright flush on Rogers cheeks. 

Even though it contrasts the rest of his pale complex beautifully.

He no longer has Rogers head on his shoulders, but their bodies are still lined up against each other. Rogers feet sway while he smokes. Freddie decides to continue pushing the subject. 

"Roger," He begins. "Is Richard really your boyfriend or do you two have a more business like agreement." 

A long inhale later, Roger is not looking at Freddie anymore. 

"What are you trying to say?" 

"Are you one of his prostitutes or are you his boyfriend?" 

Flicking away the excess ash, Roger blindly offers the cigarette back to Freddie. His eyes focused on a point between the trees across the empty streets below them. 

Freddie takes the cigarette, but waits for Rogers reply to smoke it. 

"He loves me." 

"If he loved you, he wouldn't keep you subdued with drugs and force you into prostitution." Roger doesn't react at all. His face doesn't twitch and his legs don't break their easy swaying rhythm. Freddie would think Roger is stone cold if he didn't know that Rogers heart must be pounding in his chest. 

He makes an effort to lay his words out carefully and keep his tone low to push reasonability. As if to knock some reason into Roger without sounding too challenging. 

"Wouldn't your boyfriend let you stay at his home for free, without expecting prostitution in return?" 

Because Freddie didn't take a drag from the cigarette, Roger nicks it back from him to stressfully huff around the butt. The only indication that he is being provoked by the conversation. 

"He loves me because he's providing me with everything I need, even if those things I want are wrong." 

"You _want_ to be a sex worker?"

"Everyone in the house does it." 

Talking with Roger is not _quite_ like talking to a brick wall. It is more like talking to a brick wall with no self worth. 

Freddie stares at him blankly, trying to mimic a look mastered by John. 

Roger stares back at him. 

"You're awful at glaring." 

"Well! It is hard to get answers out of you." Freddie lets a small smile play on his lips at Rogers grins around his cigarette— as if he had just been paid a compliment. 

Sighing, Roger inhales the smoke he blows out again, before handing it to Freddie. 

"At this point I just want a roof over my head and something to eat at night." 

"Stay here."

Freddie leaves a confused Roger on the windowsill and climbs back into his office. 

He quickly makes his way over to his desk where he had left his bag this morning. With the cigarette dangling between his lips, Freddie rummages through the stack of papers and two lunch packages all wedged into his tiny case. It doesn't take long for him to find the folder of pamphlets with a small triumphant noise. 

Roger watches him from over his shoulder. Neck twisted in an uncomfortable angle.

Despite his curiosity, he did as he was told and stayed put until Freddie's return. 

Freddie wedges himself back in the window with the folder under his arm, he has to hold onto Rogers shoulder to keep his balance before he sits back down.

"Here."

Roger takes the stack of papers without hesitation. "What is it?"

Freddie knows that his sobriety won't stand a chance under all this stress. The withdrawal symptoms are fading, but the aching need for drugs will be there for a long time. Living with Richard will sooner or later proof to be too much of a temptation. 

"Pamphlets for homeless shelters."

"No."

"—And a map with all the locations of the shelters flagged down." 

Roger grimaces. Freddie puts a hand on his shoulder.

"I know it's not ideal. Nobody wants to live at a shelter, but it is not permanent. Anything is better than the house of your _boyfriend_ who allows you to be raped in front of him in exchange for drugs." 

It is not Freddie's hand that makes Roger flinch, but the words are. 

As soon as the hurt flickers in Rogers eyes, he realizes he had gone one step too far this time. 

Freddie curses under his breath and smacks his forehead.

"Fuck, darling—" He retreats his hand with a grimace. "I'm sorry. That wasn't okay. I shouldn't have—"

"I'll think about it."

"You—" Freddie is stunned silent. "Yes?"

Roger chuckles, before stealing the cigarette from Freddie's parted lips. 

"Yeah." 

★ ☆★

"Oh. Oh fuck."

Johns arm tightens around his waist to keep him from falling down the slippery tiles.

Freddie lets his forehead rest against the wall, while the hot water stream beats down his neck. 

"Feels good?" John asks in a low husky voice. His lips tickle Freddie's ear with every word. 

Freddie nods helplessly. 

"Good." John leaves a wet kiss on Freddie's flushed cheek. "Fuck you're tight."

He purposely clenches around Johns cock. Humming happily when he picks up a faster rhythm and pounds Freddie restlessly against the wall. 

Freddie scrambles to hold onto the pipe of the shower head.

He is aching hard between his thighs. His cock is heavy and begging to release all over himself and the wall. 

John will have none of that. He had ordered Freddie to keep his hands on the wall at all times. Playing games even though they had to be done fast to not raise suspicions with Brian. 

"I missed this. I missed you."

The hand that is not wrapped around Freddie's waist is on his hip. His grip deliciously hard so it will bruise in the morning. 

Freddie moans in his arm to muffle the sound.

Brian is asleep in the other room. They don't want him to feel left out because he isn't able to have sex yet. 

It is hard for Freddie to stay quiet. He keeps forgetting he has to and John is hitting his prostate dead on. Causing stars to explode behind his eyelids on every well aimed thrust.

"Fuck, I'm close." John grunts.

Freddie keens at mindless rutting that follows. John always becomes more animalistic closer to his orgasm. 

The heat and steam of shower sex always turns him on more. Having to do it secretly makes it more exciting than either of them would like to admit to.

The sex was much needed on Freddie's part. He has been too wrapped up in his job. He had taken on two new patients, one of which had recently gone through a divorce and the other lost two of her children in a car wreck. Then there is the upcoming doctors appointment for Brian to see if there is any information on what his condition might be. Not to mention _Roger_ who is always a reason of worry. Then there is John—

"Fred," John grunts and pointedly shoves his hips harder against Freddie's to make him gasp. "Stop. Thinking. Now."

Each word is punctuated with a long thrust of Johns length. 

For the moment, Freddie lets his eyes fall closed and his body tumble in the easy bliss of warm arousal. 

He sighs, gasps and groans when John sucks kisses down his neck. 

"That's it Fred. That's it. You're mine, fuck."

Freddie can feel John pulsing inside of him. It is the most erotic feeling in the world. 

"Yes- Oh yes." 

He tries to keep quiet as John grunts his way to his orgasm. Hips buckling and legs slightly bend as his hot seed fills Freddie up. 

Freddie's stomach muscles tighten and he too cums untouched with a breathy sigh of Johns name.

John continues to thrust into him while his cock softens and the overstimulation makes Freddie's muscles twitch uncontrollably. When he finally pulls out, John still has to support a breathless Freddie in his arms. 

"My limbs are like spaghetti now." 

John chuckles and wraps Freddie close against his chest to take on his weight. He shifts them until the hot water beats down their faces almost equally. 

Sighing, Freddie lets his head rest on Johns shoulder as they stand there. Skin cooling down from their exercise, sweat slowly washing away with the steaming water and cum running down his leg, until John reaches around him to clean him with a warm wash cloth. 

Freddie's arms drape around Johns shoulders for additional support.

John cleans Freddie up thoroughly with gentle strokes and slow wipes. When he is positive Freddie is free from the sticky mess, he places a kiss on his wet forehead. 

"I needed that." 

Freddie presses his lips to Johns bare shoulder. 

His worries for Rogers life are becoming more apparent every day. He is starting to doubt the future of his recovery.

He knows sooner or later that Roger will not be able to resist the temptation. 

John pushes a strand of hair behind Freddie's ear when he looks up at John with a nearly believable smile.

"Me too." 

★ ☆★

To Freddie's relief, Roger shows up to every appointment and every support group session.

Freddie viewed Rogers current position as a ticking time bomb. It would only be a matter of time before Roger would crumble under the pressure of Richards demands concerning prostitution. The free availability of drugs within hand reach would one day proof to be too tempting. 

One day, Roger won't be showing up to his support group session. Freddie will get a phone call which would confirm his worries. He would toss and turn all night, hoping that Roger had a slip up or a client that kept him from showing up. But when Roger doesn't show up to their appointment either, Freddie would have to accept the fact that the temptation of drugs has outweighed Rogers ability to navigate through his road of recovery. 

Or so Freddie fears. 

Despite his concerns, Roger is never high when he comes in to their appointments. He looks more exhausted or worn around the edges, but his bruises fade and his withdrawal symptoms don't return.

Freddie finds himself growing more anxious every day. The two minutes just before their appointment are the most dreadful, each time he wonders if today is the day.

The day Roger stops showing up.

Freddie has to push his worries away, bottle them up and store them in the deepest caverns of his heart. He doesn't want to risk Roger knowing about Freddie's lack of faith in him.

They continue their arrangement. Freddie knows he will until the day Roger breaks it.

The two of them sit down, they chat, they smoke. Freddie prompts Roger to better his life and Roger finds silly ways to distract Freddie from asking him too many serious questions. 

Every appointment Roger comes back a little more exhausted than the one before. The lack of sleep makes him appear fragile and a little agitated.

The dark shadows under Rogers eyes are a new growing concern.

Freddie barely dares to ask if he is getting any proper sleep. Afraid that a sleep deprived Roger will snap at him and worse, not return.

"How have you been, Dear?"

As per usual, Freddie is in his armchair and Roger opposite of him. 

Not unlike a brainless zombie, Roger is slumped on the couch like a sack of potatoes and only manages to lift his head up from his chest after steadily sipping away Freddie's coffee. 

Roger taps his fingers on the metal bottle. Freddie tries not to stare at the dirt under his nails. 

The poor hygiene has been a recurring theme the past few days. The same goes for the outfit Roger hasn't changed in a notable time. 

Freddie knows it is rude to ask about either and is therefor left to silently wonder. 

Roger struggles to drag his eyes up to meet Freddie's across the coffee table. 

His face is sunken in and pale. Every breath he takes seems to extract more energy than the oxygen provides. 

"I haven't been to Richards in a few days."

"What?"

Freddie's eyes nearly fall our of their sockets and all the worry around his heavy heart melts away. "Roger— that's amazing news."

The sincere pride in his stammering voice makes Roger beam almost shyly. 

Without a warning Freddie finds himself leaping up from his armchair to engulf Roger in a warm hug. He is across the room before he realizes what he is doing. With his arms almost around Rogers neck, he half expects to be pushed away or asked to back off.

To his surprise, Roger opens his arms to let him in.

His heart is beating hard against his ribcage and his grin makes his face cramp.

"I am so proud of you." 

Freddie had his chin perched on top of Rogers head. He tries very hard not to put any weight on Roger, almost sure he would crush the thin man underneath him. 

He pats Rogers back and keeps him close, despite the fact the unpleasant smell that clings to him. 

It is all worth it. 

"Thank you." Rogers smile can be heard through his voice even though his face is pushed against Freddie's shoulder. "I can choose my own clients now, _he_ can't control what I'm eating or when I'm leaving the house, so I'm never late for my appointments. Most importantly I am away from the drugs— which sort of sucks but it's better this way."

Freddie pulls away enough to look Roger in the eye. 

He keeps his hands on Rogers thin shoulders and gives him a tight squeeze. 

"It's better this way."

Rogers lip quirks at the corner of his mouth and after a second he nods. 

Freddie finds himself glowing with the newfound progress and has to restrain himself from leaning in to press a kiss to Rogers inviting rosy cheeks. 

After that appointment, inevitably, Freddie has hope.

★ ☆★

"Hi Darlings, hello." 

Freddie's ankles are circled by Romeo, Tiffany and Delilah when he comes shuffling through the door.

He bends down to pick them up. All three of them voluntarily leap into his arms and cuddle themselves against his chest. The sudden warmth of the house flushes Freddie's cheeks and his smile brightens impossibly more. 

"You look happy." 

Freddie looks up to see Brian coming down the stairs in his pajamas. 

He might be taller than Freddie, but ever since getting sick he walks slightly bend by the waist to accommodate his pain. They easily close the distance between them for a chaste kiss on the lips. 

"What's that grin for?" Brian asks, slowly following Freddie into the living room.

Freddie nuzzles his nose Romeo's fur to hide his smile. 

"I am happy." He says. "Can't I just be happy?"

"Hm."

In the living room he finds John hasn't come home yet. He has the whole entire couch for himself.

He flops back onto it after toeing off his shoes. The cats scramble to get a comfortable place on his chest and have their bodies warmly covered by the length of Freddie's arm. 

Brian catches up on him and sits down on the armrest by Freddie's head.

Freddie only has to wait two seconds before long fingers find his skull and begin scratching the same way Freddie is tending to Tiffany.

"Is this about the Roger guy?" 

Freddie tips his head back to smile at Brian upside down.

"Everything just seems to be falling into place." 

Brian continues to rake his fingers through the length of Freddie's mane, until his hair is sticking up in every which directions and the curls he had tried so hard to brush out, come swirling back into place. 

But Freddie can't complain. Not with his kittens purring against his chest and Brians hands on him. 

"It's good to see you happy, Fred. Just don't forget about the reality of addiction and domestic abuse."

"And that is?" Freddie asks, raising an eyebrow.

"That some people just can't be helped."

Brian holds his gaze for a long moment. His hands trail down to cradle Freddie's cheeks. 

His hands are a cold contrast to Freddie's flushed face. 

He blinks up at him and notes Brian is looking a lot better than he did last week. From his time in the hospital he has grown pale and lost a tremendous amount of weight. The sickly yellow color no longer lingers on his skin and he is taking to eating full meals again. 

Brian is doing better. Roger is away from his abusive boyfriend and in half an hour John will be home to join the cuddle pile. 

"Do you have to be so grim, darling?" Freddie asks with a grin.

"I'm just being real!"

The cats meow in protest when Freddie sits upright to pull Brian into a long sweet kiss to shut him up. 

Freddie is pretty sure Brian rolls his eyes before giving in.

★ ☆★

It takes another four days before reality comes knocking on the door to demand its toll.

★ ☆★

"Freddie?"

Freddie nearly twits his neck because of how fast he turns to look up at the sound of Rogers voice.

Or a vague shadow of it.

"Roger? Dear what are you doing here?" Freddie is on his feet before his mind can actually catch up on the situation. 

Roger struggles to keep himself upright and would have slumped to the floor if it weren't for Freddie wrapping his arms around him to keep him on his feet.

Roger is obviously high. 

The sight of him makes Freddie's skin crawl. His cunning eyes are droopy and dull. His limbs are heavy and his neck flops back dangerously far when Freddie drags him over to the couch. 

Roger makes no move to help him, but Freddie is positive Roger couldn't coordinate his legs even if he wanted to. 

He falls back onto the cushions like a rag doll. Not moving a single muscle as he stares up at Freddie with a blank stare. It is up to Freddie to get his feet up on the couch and prop a pillow under his neck to keep him from pulling a muscle. 

Up close, Roger looks remarkably more terrible than the days before.

After years of giving therapy Freddie never had tears springing in his eyes while in his office. Today marks the first time.

"Oh Darling."

The skin under Roger eyes is dark and bruised. His lips are cracked from the cold. His skin is a sickly pale color and shockingly freezing to touch. His breath comes out shallow and slow with a deep crackling wheeze from his lungs. There are substances in his hair and on his clothes, the same thin clothes he had worn for the past week. 

He is an empty shell of Roger. 

If Freddie hadn't seen him in his office, he might not even have recognized him. 

"Fuck." He thinks. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What do I do? What do I do?" 

Freddie rubs Rogers hands between his own, they are cold as ice and nearly unmovable. He tries to bring some warmth into them by blowing hot air onto him. 

Blue eyes stare up at him blankly. His body too numb from the drugs to shiver from the cold.

It is frightening to see Roger laying so still. If it wasn't for his chest slowly falling and rising, Freddie would have thought he was dead. 

"Darling, how did this happen? What happened?" 

He tries to keep himself together and not give into the sobs crawling up his throat.

It seems impossible to transfer some heat to Roger. 

Freddie quickly gets to his feet to turn up the central heating to the highest setting. He then unfolds the decorative blanket on the armchair to throw over Rogers still body. 

"Freddie. Fred.... Nghh."

"Yes? Talk to me darling?" Freddie falls to his knees in front of the couch. He continues to clutch Rogers hands between his own. 

When he tries to speak it is a muddled unidentifiable mess. 

His lips are parting slowly, but not much sound comes out. He looks like a fish helplessly spluttering on dry land. 

"I don't know what to do Rog. Fuck you're so cold."

"M' cold."

"Did you take heroin? Roger?" 

Roger blinks at him slowly. His mind somewhere far away as he gives a loopy nod.

"Yea." His head lulls sideways onto the pillow by sheer gravity. "Sorry."

"Jesus."

Freddie can tell Roger is very weak and barely awake at this point. 

The sun has set and office will close within the next twenty minutes according to the clock on the wall. 

There is no way Roger can get up to be brought somewhere else. It is a miracle he made it to Freddie's office in the first place. 

He is too high, too numb, cold and tired to leave. 

"Roger, dear what happened?"

In his stress, Freddie reminds himself to check Rogers pulse to determine whether to bring him to the hospital and risk him being arrested for drug use, or to let him stay. 

"Okay, I'm going to check your pulse now."

He doesn't get a reaction other than a deeply pained whimper coming from his underbelly. 

Freddie rolls Rogers sleeve down to his elbow.

There he finds his wrist and slightly above it a glaring mark branded on his skin. Freddie had seen it before, but never up close. 

He trails his index finger over the scarred tissue. The symbol is unknown to him. 

The conversation hadn't come up yet wherein Roger could explain what it was.

But the sight makes Freddie's blood boil. Knowing that someone had _branded_ Roger forever. 

He pushes the thought away to put his fingers on Rogers pulse point.

Freddie holds his breath to feel his heart beating under his fingertips. The rhythm is notably sluggish, but strong.

Color seems to seep onto back Rogers face. His nose bright red from the temperature change.

"Fuck." Freddie slumps forward. "Thank God."

_At least Roger doesn't need to be taken to the hospital._

"Sorry. F-feddie. 'M sorry." Roger slurs above him. 

The sight of him is unbearable. His eyes seem slightly more alert, but extremely sad. 

"It's okay, hey, it's okay."

Freddie sits upright and fakes a smile. "You're okay. Don't have anything to be sorry about okay?" 

He wipes his tears away with his the back of his hands. 

Roger sniffles, his nose running and eyes sad. 

"Yes, you're okay. You're all fine." Freddie begins to cover Roger with the blanket completely. Covering him from the chin down to his feet. 

When he notices Roger is still wearing his shoes, he carefully unlaces them to pull them off his feet. His toes look horrific, Freddie nearly doubles over at the sight of his bruised nails, open sores and dried blood. 

He wants to cry. 

Instead of falling apart he begins to undo his own shoes and take off his socks to put on Rogers bare feet. 

They roll onto him easily.

Soon Freddie can finish tugging Roger snuggly under the blanket, he adjust Rogers position so that he is curled in himself, until only his nose and hair stick out. 

"You're alright here. You're safe and warm."

Roger is barely awake anymore, but Freddie likes to voice his thoughts out loud. 

"I'm getting you some food for when you wake up. I'm back in a moment, don't worry, okay? The office is probably empty by now, so nobody will know."

Before he gives Roger the chance to blink, Freddie rushes out of the room and into the hallway. He goes straight for the vending machine in the empty waiting room.

With the little amount of change in his pocket he buys every granola bar, two packages of crisps and a juice box. 

Greta the receptionist doesn't look up when Freddie sprints back to his office with his arms full.

His heart is pounding by the time he closes the wooden door again and drops the snacks by the coffee table. When Roger wakes up tomorrow it will be the first thing he sees. 

Freddie writes him a note saying he will be back by 8 am, which is the earliest the office opens. 

Frantic back and forth of pacing his office while the minutes bleed by— a glance at the clock confirms the office will close in less than five. 

He is forced to face the fact he will have to leave Roger here for the night.

"Oh Darling." For the final time that day, he takes a look at Roger and finds he has fallen asleep some time ago. He looks peaceful with his lips slightly parted and his eyelids fluttering as if he is having a frantic dream. 

It is tempting to say _fuck it_ , take off his coat and camp out for tonight with Roger. 

But he knows Greta will take note that Freddie has not left the office and might use the emergency key to check on his office before she leaves for tonight.

He can't risk it. 

"I'll be back, Rog." He promises, his lips close to Rogers ear. "It's all going to be okay."

As expected he does not get a reply.

Freddie continues to blink away his tears, while buttoning his coat up to his chin. He grabs his suitcase from the desk and goes straight for the door instead of trailing to Rogers sleeping form. 

He leaves the office shaken and pale. Wearing no socks in his shoes and feeling an awful pit in his stomach. 

He locks the door behind himself with a silent click. 

★ ☆★

_Roger regrets taking a client on the other side of town so late at night._

_He can barely read the map in the dark with his poor eyesight. The streets are dimly lit by stray lampposts that guide Roger through the dirty streets of London._

_Without owning a watch he cannot know exactly how long he had walked to the nearest shelter Freddie had suggested, but he can feel sores and blisters forming on his feet from the many hours. The cold is biting at his skin. He can barely feel his fingers where they are clutching the crumbled paper._

_He knows he cannot survive another night out on the streets. The bitter cold seeps through his clothes and the first droplets of rain fall on his hair._

_It took a lot of psyching for Roger to decide to go to a homeless shelter._

_After his session with his client that evening, he had hoped the man would let him sleep over for the night. Just one night._

_But no such luck. Roger was kicked to the curb and the man had seethed about his wife finding out._

_When that happened the sun was still up in the sky, now the moon has taken its place. Illuminating the grey pavement under Rogers worn soles._

_His body is sore from the way the client had handled him. His hunger makes all his organs feel squished together because of how hollow he feels. The numbness of his face and toes are thanks to the early arrived winter._

_He knows that if he doesn't sleep at the shelter tonight, he will die._

_On the map it says the shelter is on the street right before him._

_When Roger turns the corner, a big orange sign reads St Mary's Open Home._

_The relief that washes over him nearly makes his feet give out under him. He stuffs the map back in the folder under his arm and he takes the last few steps to the entrance._

_Roger pulls on the door handle, but it doesn't open._

_He frowns. Tries to push instead of pull. Leans against it with his full body weight and then rattle it to see if it got stuck because of the cold._

_But no._

_It's locked._

_"Hey!"_

_Roger slams on the glass part of the door. He sees one of the volunteer workers walk past on the other side, so he smacks it again._

_"Please, let me in."_

_"We close at 4:30 PM pal, it's nearly nine. Better luck tomorrow."_

_Dread fills the hollowness inside Roger. Sadly it does nothing to eliminate the cold he is feeling._

_He brings his hands up to the glass and slams his flat palm against it again when the volunteer turns his back on him to walk out of the hallway._

_"No, no, no please! I can't stay out here."_

_Rogers voice pitches high with desperation, but he has long forgotten what it was to have dignity._

_"Please, let me in. I'll do anything. Fuck. Please."_

_The man stops dead in tracks._

_Roger steps closer to the door and practically presses his nose to the cold glass. His hands forming foggy marks on the door._

_"Anything?" He says._

_Without any money in his pockets or the energy for his feet to carrynhim anywhere else tonight, Roger nods. His fringe falling over his eyes._

_The man, tall and broad without much hair left on his head steps closer to door._

_If Roger had the option to choose whether to take this man as a client or not, he wouldn't have. He is physically stronger than Roger and easily overpowers him. He is relatively young and seemingly fit._

_There is a glimmer in his eyes. One that makes Roger gulp._

_"Anything?"_

_"Yes."_

_The door is opened and Roger gasps at the rush of warmth coming from inside._

_He doesn't get much time to enjoy the blissful heat before he is pushed into the dark alleyway._

_The strength the other man possesses is frightening, but not as much as it is how little strength Roger himself has._

_He finds himself pushed against the brick wall of the shelter. Looking up at the volunteer._

_"You one of the Bull Crew?"_

_Roger nods. He rolls down his sleeve despite the cold to show him his mark._

_The man whistles, pressing himself closer to Roger and crowding him against the stone cold brick. "One of Richards."_

_"Yes."_

_"Looks like you've run off. A night at the shelter, a handjob. But I suspect you might not want Richard to find out about your whereabouts." Rogers hair is pushed behind his ear. The mans hot breath brushes over the shell of his ear and Roger has to stop himself from gagging. "If you want to buy my silence, it will cost you a blowjob."_

_Roger stares off at the space over the mans shoulder. He gives a nod without looking at the animalistic glister in the mans dead eyes._

_"Okay." He agrees. Barely recognizing the weak whisper of his own voice._

_His chin is tipped up for a last inspection of his face, before he is pushed to his knees._

_★ ☆★_

_Inside it is so blissfully warm that Roger nearly sheds a tear._

_His skin prickles as if a million little needles are penetrating him with the heat seeping back into his bones._

_Once the man, who's name is Peter, had led Roger into the shelter he had told Roger he was too late to get a shower, but there is still a portion of dinner left for him._

_It is the first hot meal Roger has had in days. The soup is watery and they are out of bread, but Roger finds himself smiling like an idiot when he burns the roof of his mouth in the little, eerily quiet cafeteria._

_The meal is followed up by a trip to the bathroom. The queue is at least half an hour long and Rogers knees are ready to give in on him by the time it is his turn to relieve himself._

_He finds that most homeless people keep to themselves. He had first found out the day he slept under the bridge and was offered a place by a fire without as much as a single word exchanged between anyone. Here at the shelter it is no different. People mind their own business and the only noise in the bathroom is that of toilets flushing and people coughing._

_"They'll kick you out."_

_"What?" Roger freezes in place where he had begun stripping down his clothes to rinse his undergarments. He hasn't changed his clothes in over a week._

_The woman's eyes are kind, but there is only bitterness in her voice. "You're not allowed to wash your underwear in the sink."_

_"Oh..." Roger says dumbly, before he pulls his pants back up._

_There is no mirror to see what is left of him, but he tries to scrape the dirt from his hands and under his nails after that hd washes his hair and face in the hopes of redeeming some of his good looks._

_The woman gives him one last look over, before they go their separate ways._

_★ ☆★_

_The bathrooms and their rules aren't all that bad compared to the sleeping halls._

_It reminds Roger of the gymnastics room back in secondary school. The ceilings are high, the lights are too white and it smells like sweat and other unpleasant body fluids._

_There are hundreds of mattresses lined up for the people to sleep on._

_The mattress itself is a thin cot that is less than five centimeters from the floor. Roger isn't all that tall, but he has to pull his legs in to fit._

_Two feet away on either side of him lays another person._

_The blanket he was given is paper thin and the high ceilings make the room cold._

_He wraps his arms around himself and not for the first time wishes he had stolen Richards winter coat when he had left._

_But despite all the hangups, Roger is much rather here than outside in the cold._

_He certainly wouldn't have survived another day in the late autumn streets of London._

_No. Here inside is much better than the day he spent under the bridge or in the abandoned car lot._

_Or yesterday when he had kept walking around the city because he couldn't find a safe place to sleep. He had feared that if he would stop walking, he would freeze to death._

_For tonight he is safe._

_The reminder of his week of sleep deprivation and his stomach filled with warm food makes his eyelids heavy._

_He falls asleep without a hitch._

_The snores and occasional mumbles around him go unnoticed as blissful darkness overtakes Roger._

_..._

_"Get up now."_

_Before Rogers brain comes back online, he is yanked to his feet._

_He instinctively screams and trashes, but his mouth his covered by a hand and he is still too tired to put up an effective fight._

_One heated glance confirms that it is the man from before. The volunteer._

_Peter._

_Roger knows this knowledge is not a reason to calm down. He is practically dragged through the pile of bodies to a tiny room in the far back. Once he is pushed into the dark room, the door of the dusty office is firmly locked._

_He scrambles to his feet and tries to make a run for it, but broad arms find their way around his chest and keep him perfectly still._

_Roger has no idea how long he had been sleeping, but the tiny window on the other side of the room confirms it is still dark out._

_"See here,"_

_Peter grips Rogers chin and forces him to look around the pitch black room._

_At first he doesn't see anything. Not until they step closer to him and form an ominous circle around his shaking body._

_"These here are my friends. I told them all about our little hookup."_

_Roger closes his eyes firmly, but the hungry gazes of the tree men above him burn into his soul._

_His heart pounds in his chest as Peter presses his hardness against his back. Roger is too afraid to breathe in that moment. Let alone try to move away when Peter breathes hot air in his ear._

_Roger wishes he was someone else._

_"Why don't you show them the little trick you did on me. Maybe I'll even got you some smack afterwards."_

_One of the men holds it up. A tiny plastic bag with white powder._

_He flicks the sack with a smirk._

_Roger feels dizzy. Caught between being thrown out to the streets or having to perform oral sex on four strange men. Who might even force him to do it anyway if he doesn't consent._

_Then there is the prospect of getting drugs to numb his enduring agony._

_He finds himself falling down to his knees and earning a round of wolf whistles that make his ears ring._

_If he had any dignity left before finding St Mary's Open Home, it is all gone as soon as he opens his mouth when the sound of the first zipper fills the dusty air of the office._

_★ ☆★_

_Snorting is not Rogers favorite way of taking heroin._

_The effects are less severe and his nose keeps running for hours afterwards, which he often doesn't notice because the dope has made his nostrils numb._

_With a needle, heroin is directly injected into the bloodstream. Snorted, the effects take longer to show up._

_But Roger can't complain. He is splayed out on the floor of the office, his neck half resting on a plastic stool and his legs spread like a star before him._

_His lips are still red and swollen from his dirty deed. His yaw is locked and bitterness scrapes at the back of his raw throat._

_The men around him are sated. Playing a game of cards over Rogers head in their respective chairs. Their voices drown out into the background, once his job had been done, nobody had given him a second glance or offered as much as a tissue._

_He finds himself gratefully sniffing up the contents of the little bag of smack._

_It takes longer than he would like, but once the numbness begins to tingle at the tips of his fingers it is quick to spread to the rest of his body._

_He welcomes the blissful quiet of his brain and makes peace with the fact that he will later hate himself for giving in._

_No idea how much time later of Roger floating on his high and the men around him chatting, the lights are suddenly flipped on and the room is rushed with brightness that makes Roger groan and curl a heavy arm over his eyes._

_Someone is yelling. Roger doesn't know about what, but he finds himself once again yanked to his feet._

_He stumbles and crashes against the body that's handling him._

_It doesn't register with him that they are going somewhere, not until the woman opens the door and a rush of cold hits Rogers body._

_"Uh— wha?"_

_He stumbles onto the streets like a rag doll. His pants rip open at the knees and his palms chafe on the asphalt. The door slams behind him and Rogers heroin induced brain can't seem to muddle together that he is thrown out of the homeless shelter by the supervisor._

_It takes a few minutes and judgmental glances of people passing around him in a large circle, before he manages to find his footing._

_The world tilts sideways as he sways._

_He does a poor job at steadying himself, but he has no other choice but to push forward and find a place where he is welcome._

_He knows only two of such places._

_Richards apartment only a few blocks from there and Freddie's office on the far South side of town.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I- 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it. Liked it? Is that the right way to put it? Slsks just please leave me feedback! Writers thrive on that.


	4. Of Perplexion and Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie comes home incredibly upset after what happened to Roger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! A new chapter ooooh lala! Have a good time reading sweethearts and take care

Brian knows something is terribly wrong the second Freddie comes shuffling into the living room pale as a blank sheet.

John pauses mid sentence where they had been amidst a meaningless discussion over the value of supporting a football team not related to the area you were born in, his finger is still up in the air pointing at Brians chest when he turns to face Freddie too. 

Like Brian, worry overtakes his relaxed face. 

"What happened?" He asks.

Freddie stands still in the door opening. He looks straight at John with a deeply haunted look in his eyes.

Brian struggles to get to his feet. John is faster and finds himself in front of Freddie before Brian has even found a way to balance himself on his socked feet.

"You're home late, what happened?"

It is frightening how numb Freddie reacts to John shaking his shoulders. He is stiff under his touch. 

"Freddie..." Brian has to hold onto the back of the couch. Every organ inside his body seems to grind against the other like rough edged stones, the pain never truly goes away and always lives in the background. "What's wrong?" 

John fails to get a reply out of Freddie, whose lip wobbles and he shakes his head violently. 

"H-he-he. I tried. I did and n-nothing worked. Wasn't enough. I don't know. I don't know anymore." 

Brian gently nudges John away and wraps his arms around Freddie's shoulders. It doesn't matter that he is hunched over, he still towers Freddie by far and easily guides him into an embrace.

John silently takes the suitcase from a stammering Freddie. 

It doesn't take long for Brian to wrap his arms around Brians waist and then let his forehead fall onto Brians shoulder. Brian cannot hold Freddie's weight, but he manages with the support of the backrest of the couch.

He rubs Freddie's back, shushing him when he the first sniffle fills the quiet of the living room.

"Tell me happened. Slowly." 

"He relapsed." 

"Who?" Brian asks, even though he knows exactly who.

His shirt has a wet patch seeping onto his skin. He doesn't have the heart to comment on it. 

"Roger." Freddie drawls the name out wetly. "He came into my office and he was high and he couldn't speak and— he was so cold. I thought he was going to die." 

Johns eyes widen and Brian mimics his expression over Freddie's shoulder.

They exchange a curt glance, before Brian continues to prod. 

"Where is he now? Fred?" 

"In my office." Freddie sobs. "All alone." 

Brian is admittedly relieved that he is not on the backseat of Freddie's car, which would not have surprised him either.

John is not as forgiving.

After leaving Freddie's bag on the couch he pulls on the strands of his hair in frustration.

"Freddie! Do you fucking want to get fired?"

Freddie begins to cry harder and Brian gives John the most disapproving glare he can muster. 

"I'm being serious! You left a _high_ drug addict at your work place by himself. A complete fucking stranger." He drags his hands down his face and he looks like he is about to scream. If he wants to, Brian would rather have him do it in the garden as to not upset the cats further— who are huddled in their corner behind the television. "Addicts are unpredictable and dangerous. You're so fired Freddie. Fucking hell!" 

"Enough." 

Brian is too late, because Freddie is starting to shake. 

"I wanted him to get better _so_ bad. He did everything I asked. He went to the support group, he kept coming to me, he stopped the drugs and left his boyfriend. I don't know what happened. What did I miss? I don't understand why."

He pulls away just far enough to look Brian in the eye. Freddie tries and fails to wipe away his tears before the roll down his cheeks. His eyes dart up to the ceiling and he fans his face, blinks rapidly, nothing works. The tears won't stop. 

"I don't know what I did wrong. He was high and shaking and his pulse was weak." 

It is an awfully helpless sight. Brian finds his stomach churning.

He wraps his hands around Freddie's wrists to stop his frantic hand movements. He pulls Freddie in close while he struggles to keep his own tears at bay. 

"Are you okay?"

"He was shaking a-and his feet were torn open. I couldn't do anything I just— Fuck I didn't know what to do? I just left him there, I didn't know what else I could because he couldn't move and I-"

"No, Fred." Brian lowers Freddie's hands to his shoulders and wipes his face with his thumbs. "Are _you_ okay? Did he hurt you?" 

Different emotions flash through Freddie's eyes. Sadness, remorse, fear and then indifference.

"He'd never hurt me."

"He was high!" John throws his arms in the air.

"He could barely stand, let alone hurt me! You have never met him, you don't know a fucking thing about him!" Freddie spits back. The sound so deliriously vile that all three of them are taken aback.

Brian swallows thickly. Freddie closes his eyes.

"Fuck. No, I'm sorry."

"It's fine." John is standing stiff some paces away from them.

Freddie covers his face with his hands and shakes his head frantically. "No no. I'm frustrated, but not at you. I'm sorry. I really am."

"It's fine, he said." Brian has his arms around Freddie's waist and pulls him flush against his chest. Freddie sighs behind his palms and Johns shoulders tense further when Freddie slumps in defeat.

John cautiously steps closer. 

Brian gives him as much of a smile as he can muster and then he offers John a hand and all three of them are entangled in a hug. 

The pressure on his stomach becomes nearly too much. By the time Freddie puts his weight back to his own feet, Brian is nauseous with the rippling pain and he longs for a dosage of painkillers. 

"Nobody saw me. I locked the door."

"That's good." John tries a smile too. He fails miserably, but makes an effort to brush the remaining tears away from Freddie's face with his thumbs. "It's important to protect yourself, Fred."

"I know."

"I'm not sure you do." John whispers, his palms delicately cupping Freddie's cheeks. 

Freddie looks away.

Brian has long learned that there is something about the way Freddie is wired that makes him more inclined to take care of others rather than himself. 

Situations such as these are not uncommon but always remain dangerous. 

Some of his paleness has been replaced by blotchy red. John presses his lips to Freddie's lips.

Freddie sniffles, but stays perfectly still for a second peck. 

"It's going to be okay, I swear. I'll fix it." 

It is Brians turn for a kiss. He pushes his lips out and waits for Freddie's wet skin to brush over his. "It is not us you have to promise that. Only yourself."

"Right." 

Freddie swallows thickly. Brian can see his Adams apple bopping under his grey turtleneck. 

He pushes himself away from his boyfriends and is quick to walk out of the living room. He is still rubbing his face while he moves towards the stairs with an audible sniffle. 

"I'll start dinner soon. Just need a moment." 

John and Brian are left to stare at him, but neither decides to follow after him. John is fiddling with his fingers. Brian is worrying his lip between his front teeth. 

"Fucking hell." He says as soon as Freddie slams the bathroom door upstairs.

John has his arms crossed and fumes. 

"Whoever this person is, he is going to end him."

★☆★

That evening Brian finds himself in bed before the other two are. Over the past few weeks that has not been uncommon, neither is the pain tearing Brian apart from the inside out.

Laying on his side doesn't elevate the pain. He had hoped he would feel better after nothing was found during the operation, but the stitches are still fresh and his organs seem to be cramping taught against one another. 

The pain shoots between his lungs and down to his intestines. 

He wishes the painkillers would kick in already before John and Freddie find him muffling his groans in his pillow, but no such luck was grazed to him tonight. 

"—I swear she rips and then eats all the carpet from the corner behind the—"

"Shhh."

Freddie shushes Johns complaints about Tiffany's antics and Brian can imagine him pointing at him laying on the bed. 

"Bri's sleeping."

"Am not." He croaks, despite his eyes being tightly closed and his back turned to them.

Within the next minute he finds himself surrounded by his two loved ones. Since he'd come back home from his miserable time in the hospital, he had earned the spot in the middle of the bed.

John wraps his arms around Brians waist from behind him and presses his flat palm on his stomach.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah." The pain is intense and causes sweat to brea out from his forehead all the way to his fingertips. Freddie does't care though, he never does, and leans in to rest his forehead against Brians. "Painkillers are taking their time."

"Poor darling." Freddie says, splaying one cool palm on Brians cheek. 

It is very hard to hold back a soft moan when John begins to rub circles over Brians belly. His palm flat and warm under Brians t-shirt and slightly pushing the waistband of his underwear down to reach.

He finds himself relaxing slightly against his sweat soaked pillow and his body sinks into the mattress.

It feels homely and even warmer than the hearth on Christmas morning. 

Brian is so entranced by the moment that he nearly forgets that Freddie had a twenty minutes cry in the bathroom before dinner and had become victim to one of his patients taking advantage of his kindness by using Freddie's office as a place to crash. 

It wouldn't be the first time Freddie's goodness was taken advantage of. It wouldn't be the last.

"You doing better Fred?"

"Yes, Love." Freddie's lips brush over Brians nose. Brian keeps his eyes closed. "There is nothing more I can do for him now. I'll go there in the morning and see how I can help then. All I can do for now is lay here and take all advantage of the love from my baby's."

"Just because you're the oldest—" John starts, but Brian shushes him by rubbing his cold foot against Johns. "Oi!"

Brian reaches down to blindly grasp one of Johns hands and give it a squeeze. 

"Sorry." Brian says, voice soft.

John lets out a suffering sigh that tickles the back of Brians neck, before he cuddles himself flush against Brian. In a week or two the cold will force them to turn on the heater and keep the windows closed despite the cats, but now they make due with taking one another's warmth. 

"I'll be grey before I'm 30 because of you two."

It's a joke, but really the element of truth leaves a bitterness in Brians mouth.

He lifts Johns hand up and kisses it. "I'm sorry."

"It was a joke."

There is a kiss on the back of his neck, followed by one on the first bump of his spine. "I'll gladly turn grey for you idiots."

Brians lips are still pressed to Johns hand. He keeps it there, just as the warm stream of the painkillers begin to course through his body. 

The euphoric numbing of the pain in his abdomen nearly sends him to tears. 

Freddie says something and John murmurs something back in an equally low voice, But Brian finds himself barely awake anymore by now. The exhaustion replaces the pain. His eyelids are heavy and so is Johns hand in his. 

He slowly lets it fall onto the pillow next to his face. 

John doesn't say anything and doesn't stop rubbing his stomach. 

Before he can actually fall asleep, Freddie lets out a content sigh that ruffles Brians hair over his eyes. He wraps his arm around both John and Brian, forcing them to squish together to fit his arm length.

"Being around my men always lifts my spirits."

"I bet those secret blowjobs in the bathroom help too." Brian whispers.

He doesn't get to hear their spluttering reactions because blissful darkness overtakes him.

★☆★

"Bye Darlings!"

"Freddie? It's barely 7:30?" 

Brian and John both watch Freddie rush past the kitchen door. 

From the table they can only peek slightly into the hallway, where Freddie tries to simultaneously put on his shoes and coat. In his haste he mixes up what shoe goes on which foot and Brian doesn't dare to tell him his coat is on inside out too.

His hair is unbrushed and curled on the edges and his shirt is not ironed.

Normally Freddie wouldn't be up to leave until 8:30. Brian hasn't ever seen him walking about this energized in the morning without sipping his coffee for a good thirty minutes. 

"I have to go to Roger of course!" Freddie calls over his shoulder while looking around for his suitcase.

"Of course..." John murmurs into his mug. 

"See you tonight lovies!" 

When he finds his bag, Freddie barely spares them a wave over his shoulder before he is out the door. Car keys jiggling between his fingers.

It was as if a hurricane had just stormed through their house and the cats are left meowing confused by the door why they did not get any attention from their owner. 

Brian deflates back into the chair with a sigh as the slam of the front door echoes, his goodbye still on the tip of his tongue, but too late for Freddie to hear. He turns back to an equally confused and tired looking John.

_Nothing they can do now_.

John shrugs, before he continues where they had left off before the interruption. 

"—So as I said, beside the bananas we need milk too, but other than that I think we are good... Fred might like some applesauce for the spinach tonight."

"I'll get those." 

Brian scribbles the only four groceries down on the back of his wrist. 

He can feel Johns eyes on him before his fingers find Brians hand on top of the wooden table. 

It is 7:30 am, so Brian struggles to lift his eyes up to Johns across from him.

When he does manage, he instantly wishes he hadn't met his gaze. The pity in Johns eyes is not unexpected, but borders on condescending.

His unknown illness had changed his life and the way his boyfriends view him.

Last spring Brian would be the one working from 9 to 6 and assist Freddie with the chores in the garden. Now, late autumn, Brian finds himself on the thin thread of unemployment and the idea of physical strain makes him recoil.

"Brian, I understand if you don't feel like you can—"

He no longer has his self sufficiency or pride. No wonder John doubts whether or not Brian can handle a simple run to the local supermarket. 

Brian swallows thickly and turns his hand over so he can lay his palm over Johns. 

"You can at least trust me with an errand, John."

"Oh I know that!" John sputters over his nearly empty coffee mug. "That's not what I meant."

"What _did_ you mean?"

There is no fight in his voice and it only weakens Brians case. The furrow between Johns brow wrinkles further and he caresses his thumb over the back of Brians hand.

"Don't go if you don't feel up for it. I can do it when I'm back from work, or Fred can."

"You work until seven and Fred has his _favorite_ patient to look after."

John smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "We always come first."

Brian doesn't voice his fear that he might never feel up to doing things again. Not with the way his stomach is churning because he had kept down his dry piece of toast or how the steaming coffee odor coming from Johns mug makes the back of his throat taste funny. 

Instead, he lifts Johns hand up to kiss it. Not unlike the night before. 

"You have to go to work." Brian whispers, "You're already running late."

"I know." 

John sighs as he pushes his chair away from the table. He has to withdraw his hand, but not before bending down to peck Brian on the lips. 

"Take it easy." 

Brian presses his lips in a thin line. "I always do." 

John slips into the kitchen to put his mug in the sink. Brian watches him work in his army green overalls. John rushes around the kitchen, empty his coffee in the sink, fill it with water, leave it in the corner, wash his hands, reach for his lunch in the fridge—

"Fuck." 

Brian hadn't realized he had slumped forward until he was nearly flat on the table with his upper body, until he shoots up again. "What?"

John pulls Freddie's enormous lunch package from the fridge with a groan.

"Idiot was too hurried to remember to take his food with him."

Brian grimaces, "What are they going to eat than?" 

"They might go out and buy something." John puts Freddie's food on the table before reaching for his own. He is running late and he has a client at 8. 

"I don't think so." Brian spots Freddie's wallet at the corner of the table, which includes not only money, but also his drivers license and identification card. "Left his wallet too."

"You're joking?"

Johns eyes are on his watch and then he runs a frantic hand through his fringe. 

"Fucking Christ I don't have time to bring that." 

Brian can't stand the tension of Johns shoulders or the deep frown set on his forehead, making it seem like he is in his early forties, rather than early twenties. 

"I can bring it after I do groceries." He says. 

"I don't think that's a good idea," John has his lunch under his arm while he scrambles his way over to the hallway to shove on his heavy combat boots. "You haven't been out of the house by yourself, let alone driving all the way to Freddie's office."

Brian knows it isn't, but it feels like a challenge for his pride. 

"It's not a bloody marathon I'll be running. It's a twenty minutes car drive." He leaves out the fact that he is secretly hoping _Roger_ will still be at the office too. Brian has been curious who has been occupying Freddie so much over the past few weeks. 

He wants to see for himself. Analyze and draw his own conclusions based on that, rather than Freddie's idealistic descriptions. 

He knows he doesn't need Johns permission to go, but he wishes John would be more supportive of his idea, rather than sighing deeply, while he wiggles himself into his matching army green jacket.

"I have to go." 

"I know." Brian tips his chin up to receive the kiss on his lips. It is brief and soft, but it makes Johns eyes sparkle and his shoulders relax slightly. 

He straightens Brians pajama shirt with the smallest of all smiles for no reason other than to be close to him for one moment longer. "Be safe, don't overdo it. Freddie's doesn't die if he has to borrow someone's money for lunch."

"I'll bring it to him." Brian says determinedly. "See how he is doing." 

"Fine. Just—"

"Be _safe_. I know, John. Now go!" Brian laughs and pushes Johns hands away. 

John chuckles and blows him a kiss over his shoulder before he is out the door. 

★☆★

Brian will never admit to John that he chooses to go to Freddie's office before he goes to get the groceries. 

He hadn't even changed out of his pajamas other than pulling on a fresh pair of sweatpants and socks. The car is cold from the months of not being used and he wiggles his stiff toes in his sneakers. John had checked if everything was still working a couple of weeks ago, including the heater, but that doesn't mean the engine doesn't screech and splutter when Brian turns the gas on. 

The seat belt digs into Brians hurting belly and he can't help but feel nauseous at the world rolling by the window as soon as he is out of the driveway.

Brian decides not to turn on the radio and enjoy the calm humming of the heater. 

He knows the journey like the back of his hand. Before he got sick he would often drop Freddie off before work. 

It is past 8 AM and rush hour in London. 

Traffic slows him down a good 10 minutes and by the time he parks in front of the office, the waiting room is filled with five people, he is afraid he has missed Roger. 

"Hi,"

The receptionist looks up from her nails to give him a brief smile. "Good morning, how can I help you?"

Brian leans against the desk to keep his balance. He can ignore the pain in his abdomen for now, but the pain killers are starting to wear out. 

"I was just wondering where I could find Freddie Mercury's office." 

"You can wait on one of the chairs until your name gets called."

Heat spreads over Brians cheeks and he clears his throat to get rid of the embarrassment for being mistaken for a mentally ill person. "I'm not uh... Not a patient. Freddie and I are roommates. He forgot his lunch." 

"Oh! Of course." 

Greta, as her nametag says, smiles and points towards the hallway to the left with her nail file. 

"Take a left and walk down the hall, about the fourth door on the right. His name will be on it, so you can't miss it."

"Thank you."

Brian pushes away from the desk and offers stiff smile. 

He stalks down the hall slightly hunched over in pain and is quick to find the door with Freddie's name on it. There are butterflies fluttering in his stomach at the idea of finally getting to meet the person central to Freddie's life right now. He is worried as much as he is curious, which is in the nature of a scientist.

Armed with the lunch packet under his arm and Freddie's wallet wedged in the back of his jeans, Brian knocks. 

One moment and a "Come in" later, Brian finds himself face to face with Freddie.

"Darling! What are you doing here?"

He is wildly surprised to see Brian standing there. His eyes widen and his face splits into a grin. 

Brian is pulled into a bone crushing hug that makes him grunt.

"You forgot your lunch and wallet. John was running late, so I thought I'd bring it over." He demonstrates him the lunch box as soon as Freddie grants him his personal space back. 

Freddie looks much better than he did yesterday or this morning, the natural sparkle in his eyes has returned and he is glowing. 

"How kind of you, dear, oh come on in."

Brian is pulled into the warm office by his arms after a chaste kiss and as soon as Freddie moves to the side, he sees blond hair sticking up from the couches backrest. 

"Rog! We have a special guest."

" _Joy_." 

He strains his neck to peek at Roger over Freddie's shoulder, but he can't quite look past him. 

Curiosity nearly makes his toes curl in his shoes.

"We were just talking about what to get for breakfast, you came the right moment I tell you." 

Freddie leads the way and gestures for Brian to sit down on the armchair opposite the couch. It takes core strength to get all the way down to the leather cushion, which Brian struggles with. Freddie offers him a hand and props up a pillow behind his back. 

As soon as he sits comfortably, he gets a wink from Freddie, who _finally_ moves aside. 

"Brian, this is Roger, Roger darling, this is my boyfriend Brian."

There he meets Roger.

Roger, who hasn't showered in days and is withdrawing again, evident by the layer of sweat on his forehead and the shadows under his eyes, offers Brian a weak smile. 

He isn't sitting upright and doesn't look like he could if he wanted to. Slumped on the armrest of the couch, propped up by his elbow with the bone jutting out nearly puncturing the skin. 

The sight is sickening. 

Most of his body is covered by a blanket, but his face shows signs of bruises and grime. His eyes are half lidded and his lips are cracked. 

"Nice to meet you." He says. His voice thin and raw. 

Brian tries for a smile too, but he finds his voice stuck in the tightness of his throat.

"Very nice to meet you too."

He earns a more earnest lopsided smile and Freddie clasps his hands together. "It's nice to see my men meeting one another, finally."

He sits down on the edge of Brians armchair and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

Brian wraps an arm around his waist without looking away from Rogers dulled blue eyes. He finds Roger staring back at him with the same intensity and mirroring curiosity. 

He wasn't sure what he had expected upon meeting Roger. 

Perhaps someone more fitting of the _junkie_ image. Someone with greasy hair, two missing front teeth and sporting a beard with bread crumbs in them.

The person opposite of him is ethereal and lithe in a way Brian hadn't ever seen before. Not even in his own boyfriends. 

He might be bruised and pale, but underneath the grime, Roger is undeniably beautiful. 

"I think I have to go."

"So soon, Darling?" Freddie shoots to his feet the moment Roger begins to untangle himself from his bundle of blankets. 

He sways dangerously and Brian finds himself instinctively reaching out to offer a hand the same way Freddie does. Roger, finding his balance by putting his head in his hands and groaning, shrugs them off. 

"I gotta go. Got places to be."

"Alright..." 

Freddie seems reluctant to let him go. Brian can hardly blame him. 

Rogers legs wobble on every step he takes and he nearly slides off the wall when he puts his shoes on. His eyes are barely open with how lidded they are.

If he slept through the night, it doesn't look like it. 

While Roger is rushing to make his way out of the office, Freddie rushes to unpack Rogers part of the lunch box.

They finish in sync. Roger waits by the door while Freddie gives him his food. 

"Don't forget your appointment tonight at the support group." 

"I know, Freddie." He whispers.

The affection radiates between the two of them. Brian squirms in his chair. 

They exchange a brief hug. Freddie whispers something in Rogers ear which Brian can't catch from the armchair. When Freddie pulls back, Roger gives a watery smile. 

"I'll be fine."

"You better be." Freddie says. "Now off you go."

He gives Rogers shoulder one last squeeze before he opens the door for him.

Brian watches him leave with a heavy pit in his stomach. 

Those wobbly legs won't carry him far. The drowsy cloudiness of his eyes won't steer him straight forward. 

"See you around, Brian." Roger adds before he is out the door. Giving Brian no chance to reply back. 

Freddie's face falls the moment the door clicks and it is closed. His shoulders are slumped and Brian wishes he had the strength to carry some of the weight for him.

He struggles to his feet and ignores the pain in his stomach, Brian closes the distance and hugs Freddie flush against him.

"Fucking hell." He rests his chin on Freddie's head. "Where do you think he's going?"

Freddie deflates against Brian. "Richard."

Brian tightens his arms around Freddie's shoulders. His mind reels with possibilities and doom scenarios with things that could happen to someone like Roger walking down the streets in his state of being. 

Going home to his abuser. 

The idea makes his stomach churn and the little amount of breakfast he had managed to keep down feels heavy as leed in the pit of his abdomen. 

"I understand it now."

Freddie pulls away slightly. Just far enough to look Brian in the eye. "What?"

"Why you're so invested. I think I understand." 

The eyes of his beloved soften. Brian finds it hard to breathe when Freddie's eyes water for the hundredth time these last 24 hours. 

"What else can I do?" He asks.

His helplessness rubs off on Brian. 

His heart is racing and his blood is rushing too fast through his body and increasing his pulse. 

If John was here he would he yelling at the two of them for being incompetent. Brian would deserve it, because his instincts go against everything he has ever told Freddie about selflessness and putting yourself in dangerous situations. 

"Take this."

Brian reaches for his back pocket and hands a frowning Freddie his wallet. 

"What are you—"

"There is nothing you can do now, but I can." He pecks Freddie's lips, before rushing towards the door. "And I will."

★☆★

"Hey! Hey Roger?!"

Brian hasn't walked much in over two months, let alone jogged. He is out of breath and panting before he is even out of the office.

Lucky for him, Roger hasn't gotten far yet.

He stops midstep to look over his shoulder. Eyebrow raised. 

"Yes?" He asks. 

Brian stops running when Roger waits for him to catch up. By the time he stands before Roger, Brian is red in the face and out of breath.

Roger gives him an amused once over. Brian leans on his knees to regain composure. 

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," He pants, struggling to form words. "Just, I was just wondering how- wow."

Taking pity on him, Roger lays a hand on his shoulder and rubs gently, neither of them has a bottle of water to help Brians wheezing, but Brian appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

"Should we get you back inside?" Roger asks and begins to pull Brians elbow in the direction of the office with a surprising amount of strength. 

Brian shakes his head frantically and digs his heels into the pavement. "No. No. Actually," He slowly feels the blood in his face rush back down again. His lungs begin to open up at their own pace and he breathes a little easier. "I was wondering how you are getting home?"

Rogers eyebrows raise in surprise. 

For other reasons than his poor condition Brian finds his cheeks heating up. He is painfully aware of Rogers hand on his arm. 

"I'm walking." Roger says.

Brian _really_ doesn't like that idea. Roger is all skin-and-bones, he looks like he hasn't slept in a week which might be the after effect of the heroin. He looks like the wind could blow him off his feet. 

"Can I offer you a ride?" 

"Me?" Roger removes his hand from Brians arm to cover his smile. 

Brian blames the early morning beams of the sun for making it look like Roger is glowing and there is a halo around his head. He feels himself smile at the saintly sight. 

"Yeah, it's quite cold out today." He rubs his hands together for demonstration purposes. "And I got a car." 

There is a second of hesitation, but it doesn't last when the wind picks up and makes Roger shiver violently through his thin coat and ripped jeans. 

He wraps his arms around himself and gives in.

"Do you live anywhere near Clifton Road?" 

"Yeah." Brian lies with a smile. "My car is right over there, let's go before we freeze our bloody balls off." 

Roger chuckles and the melodic sound rings through Brians ears for a long minute. 

★☆★

"Don't you have anywhere else to be?"

Brian snorts and shakes his head. "No. Not really." 

They have hit the infamous London traffic and Brian has to push the breaks before he bumps into the car before him.

The radio is off and Roger has his hands hovering over the heater on the dashboard.

"Is it warm enough?"

"Yes, thank you." Roger twists his neck to him instead of looking out the window at the car lanes next to them. He scans Brian over, his sky blue eyes lingering on his shredded denim jacket, before meeting his eyes. "Freddie told me you were sick."

"Yes." 

"Are you doing any better?" 

Brian shrugs, he lets the car roll forward for half a meter before he pulls the brakes again. "There are good days and there are bad days."

"Tell me about it." Roger winks.

Brian wishes he could control the blush spreading over his cheeks and down his neck. 

Roger is a sight to behold, curled up in the chair with his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms stretched out forward to bring some warmth back into his numb fingertips. 

He is no longer shivering and under his shaggy hair, he is regaining some color. 

Brian drums his fingers on the steering wheel and squirms to face Roger. 

"It is quite nice to meet you finally. Freddie keeps talking about you at home, wondering if you're home safe, if you're eating enough, if you're okay. He never shuts up."

"You must be tired of me." 

His tone is supposedly playful, but Brian can see through the act. 

"Well," He says, "It made me wonder who stole my boyfriends heart." 

Roger shifts his knees until they are pointing in Brians direction. "Are you jealous, Brian?"

"No." Brian smiles. "I think I get it now."

A smug grin tugs on the corner of Rogers lips. He rests his temple on the backseat and withdraws his hands to his chest. 

"So he told you all my dirty secrets?" 

"No, he'd never." Brian presses. "He came home last night, terribly upset. He told us you relapsed." 

"I did." 

The smile isn't wiped off of his face, but it is dimmed slightly. The cars move again and Brian is forced to break eye contact. 

He hopes he isn't overstepping, he has excelled in containing his curiosity. "Are you feeling okay?"

Roger shoulder brushes against Brians when he shifts in the chair. "Bit peachy, very tired but that's to be expected— hey, do you have any tissues?"

"Left drawer in the dashboard."

Brian watches Roger from the corner of his eye fish out the package and hold the tissue to his running nose. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"For everything, that is." Roger pokes his arm playfully and the touch sends tingles to the rest of his body. "For bringing Freddie's lunch, looking after him and taking me home. I know you live nowhere near here, or at least I hope you don't."

The closer they got to Rogers neighborhood, the grimmer the environment around them becomes.

The flats are decaying, glass of the windows are smashed and trash lays abandoned on the pavement. The people look as grim as the streets they live on. 

Homeless people are huddled on the floor, addicts are stumbling about and prostitutes are waving down the passing cars. 

Brian tries not to look, but like a disastrous car crash he can't help himself. 

"You don't have to thank me for anything, really." 

His heart is pounding in his chest and his hand shakes dangerously when he lets it land on Rogers calf. 

At first Roger doesn't react at all. He doesn't shrug Brian off, but his eyes dart down to examine the innocent touch warily. "I'm sure it'll win you some points with Freddie."

Brian chuckles warmly. "That too." 

They continue on in comfortable silence. Brian only moves his hand when he needs it to drive, but it always returns to Roger, who leans into the touch further with every passing second and dirty street outside the window. 

"Take a left. We're almost there." 

The idea of Roger leaving disappoints Brian surprisingly much and he subconsciously slows down his driving in a last attempt at stalling the inevitable. 

Roger asks him to stop in front of a rough looking apartment with blacked out windows and people hanging around the front. Brian doesn't like the idea of someone as frail and vulnerable as Roger walks around there, let alone live there. 

"Want me to walk you to the door?" Brian asks.

Roger uncurls himself and settles his feet back onto the carpeted floor of the car with a sigh. 

"No, Richard won't like that. Thank you for the ride though." 

His smile is short lived and Brian can see it dissolve the moment Roger opens the door.

"Be safe." He calls after him, sounding smaller and more desperate than he had imagined in his head. 

Roger walks with his head ducked and his shoulders slump further and further the closer he gets to the decaying stairs leading up to the front door. Before he raises his hand to ring the bell, he waves at him over his shoulder. Brian waves back. 

What happens next is none of his business. 

If Brian was a better person, he would put his car in reverse and drive off. Yet he cannot get his hands to stop gripping his steering wheel. 

Roger does not have to wait long for the door to open. Brian doesn't expect a sparsely dressed woman with dark curled hair to rush out of the house and wrap her arms around Roger. 

She looks as frail and thin as he is, but the hug is bone crushing. In their reunion, Roger smiles and she sways him in rejoice, talking a mile an hour with tears glistening in her eyes. 

The moment is intimate and so private Brian feels shameful for watching the couple.

Just before his hand is on the stickhandle, the scene changes. 

The girl is forcefully pulled back into the apartment and replaced by a much taller and broader figure than herself or Roger. 

_Richard_.

Brian feels his stomach drop by the way Roger shrinks in on himself. 

A broad hand comes up to grab Rogers chin and tilt it upwards for a kiss. 

Sick crawls up Brians throat when Roger is forced to take the deepening of the kiss. An uncomfortable moment later, Roger is pulled inside the house by his wrist.

Richard looks around warily, as if sensing someone is watching him. His eyes don't linger on Brians car, but Brian still finds himself holding his breath until Richard slams the door closed behind himself. 

Brian drives off with a pit in his stomach.

★☆★

"So, Freddie."

Freddie looks up at Brian from across the table with an easy smile.

Brian fiddles with the strings on his hoodie. From the corner of his eye he can see Johns eyebrow raising in curiosity. 

"Yes Darling? Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Brian swallows, he takes a deep breath that levels his breathing out and decides to man up and say what had been on his mind all day. "What can you tell me about Roger?"

"Roger?"

Freddie's eyes widen and at the exact same moment John lets his fork clatter back onto the table. 

"How come everyone is obsessed with this person after I told you, _both_ of you, not to get involved with drug users?"

The tips of Brians ears flush and Freddie doesn't scramble to defend himself either.

They go back to their food in relative silence other than their utensils scraping over their plates while John gives them a disapproving once over. Brian knows he _shouldn't_ , but he can't help it after what he had witnessed today. 

Freddie is the first to speak up again, nudging Johns hand with his own. 

"You'll understand after you meet him, Darling."

To which Brian admittedly nods in agreement.

★☆★

_"Here you go."_

_Richards lips brush over Rogers forehead before he crawls into the bed next to him. Careful not to jostle Roger too much with the bowl of ice cream in his lap._

_Before today Roger had never been in Richards bedroom._

_It is nothing like the rest of the apartment. It is clean and tidy. There is a large bed with a frame and a big closet on the opposite wall, locked with three different sets of locks._

_"Thank you." He says, voice thin._

_An arm wraps around Rogers middle and he is pulled flush against Richards side under the blankets._

_He rests his head on his shoulder, he sniffles._

_"How are you feeling?" Richards broad hand combs through the mess that is Rogers hair. A permanent lump has been stuck in Rogers throat, he feels another wave of tears prickling behind his eyes._

_He wipes his cheeks with his sleeve. He sniffles again._

_"I miss her."_

_"Oh Roger." Richard tuts while he caresses the side of his blotchy face. "That's only understandable."_

_Helpless grief has hollowed the depths of his stomach and darkened the edges of the world._

_The last three days have been a defeated blur wherein Roger hasn't felt like eating, sleeping, going to school or living, for that matter._

_His mother is gone and this time for good._

_Richard scoops up a spoonful of ice cream and offer it to Rogers lips._

_"Have some."_

_Roger feels like he is four years old when shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."_

_He wonders how long it will take for Richard to grow tired of his behavior. When he will stop rewarding Rogers numb responses and support him at his most vulnerable._

_When Roger doesn't move to comply, Richard tilts his chin up and forces Rogers watery eyes to meet his._

_Every organ inside of Roger has been in a knot ever since the news of her passing had come to him. He feels utterly helpless and his body weakens with both grief and a lack of nutrients._

_"She wouldn't want you to starve, would she?"_

_"No." Roger says in a small voice._

_"She is gone now, Roger. You need to realize she is no longer here to look after you and make sure you're okay. You are too young to take care of yourself now, you got no job, no diploma, no money for your own apartment." Richard speaks in a low projecting voice. His grip keeps Roger from breaking the intense eye contact. "That is why I am here to take care of you. Your responsibility falls on my shoulders now. Let me protect you, let me make sure you are okay. No matter what, you'll always have a home here."_

_Roger finds himself rapidly blinking his tears away and yet having some escape the curtain of his eyelashes._

_Richard catches them before they fall. His fingers dig in the plushiness of Rogers round cheeks. He feels himself trembling uncontrollably with the prospect reminder of his vulnerability and that he has nowhere else to go._

_He doesn't understand why Richard has been so keen to console him, but knows he would be nowhere without this man._

_He wouldn't even have known his mother had passed on._

_Roger lets out a suffering sigh, before he nods._

_"Good."_

_Richard once again holds the tea spoon with melting vanilla ice slowly dripping down the sides in front of Rogers lips._

_Roger opens his mouth and lets Richard feed him the ice cream until his tongue is numb from the cold and his crying has drained all of his energy. He lets his eyes drift closed and Richard wraps both his arms around him, until Roger is swaddled in his lap like an infant child._

_Warmth and security help him lull into sleep and so does Richard whispering reassurances into the shell of his ear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter out in the world. I was struggling just slightly with Brians perspective, I do hope all of you have a good week and please leave me a comment. Fuels me to write more! ❤️


	5. Of Habits and Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Freddie aren’t on the same line. Roger lives under the consequences of returning to Richard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hihi! Hope you enjoy it lovies

Freddie isn't surprised to see the bruises have returned on Rogers body now that he is back living with Richard.

He makes no effort in hiding his fresh needles tracks littering the length of his arms. Freddie reminds himself not to let his eyes linger for too long on the scarring of his brand mark either. 

Ever since Roger had returned to Richards he has grown more quiet, more hesitant to speak. 

"Was he angry?"

Freddie knows that Richard had punished Roger for leaving, his abuse shows on the purple bruises on Rogers neck and the limp he sported when he came into Freddie's office today.

All Freddie can do is offer comfort when necessary and freely give the advice Roger doesn't seem keen to listen to.

It had given him hope that Roger had come to him after he had gotten high. They hadn't talked what happened previously to his relapse, but Freddie knows it wasn't pretty. 

Not if Rogers unusual reservedness is anything to go by. 

Roger huddles himself closer to Freddie. His knees are under his chin and he has his temple resting on Freddie's shoulder.

"Livid." Comes his mumbled reply. "Don't really want to talk about it." 

Freddie strokes Rogers hair behind his ear. He hopes that Roger can't feel how fast his heart is pounding against his ribcage. Freddie is afraid to know what happened and equally frightened of Roger living with the burden alone. "That's fine dear, whatever you want." 

Roger lets out a sigh and deflates against Freddie. His legs fall sideways into Freddie's lap, his face is covered by the back of his palm as if to block out the rest of the world for the time being. 

His needle tracks are fresh and so are the bruises around his wrist.

To distract himself from the sight Freddie rakes another gentle hand through his hair. 

"How is sobriety going for you?"

"Dunno."

He raises an eyebrow and even though Roger cannot see it, he knows he can sense Freddie's mood nonetheless. "You don't know?"

Roger removes his hand from his face and waves it in the air dismissively. 

"It's on hold for now."

"Perhaps," Freddie starts knowing Roger won't like what he has to say. He keeps his tone light and non-confrontational. "Your sobriety would stand a better chance in a less stressful environment. I can imagine that now the heroin is quite appealing and easy to come by."

Roger blinks up at him and pushes his upper body away from Freddie. For the first time since they met, he wears an expression of distraught directed at Freddie.

"You could never imagine what I'm going through." 

"Oh."

Freddie's hand stops moving through Rogers hair and he finds himself unable to breathe in the unfamiliar tension that suffocates the room. 

Rogers face crumbles within the same second and he scrambles to take his words back. "Sorry. That's not fair—"

"No, don't, Roger." 

He tries for a smile, but Roger still looks guilty and doesn't meet his eye. They are both painfully aware of the fact that if Freddie decides to end their relationship that Rogers life will he off much worse than it is now.

Freddie lets go of his tension and forces himself to exude calm. 

"You don't have to apologize, Roger. I am painfully aware that you're correct and I don't know what you're going through." He takes no claim of the power hanging in the air. He tells himself Rogers fate is not in his hands, despite the uncomfortable shifting. "You're under more pressure than you're letting on, aren't you?" 

He earns an indifferent shrug. Rogers eyes are nowhere near his. 

Taking stronger measures, Freddie opens his arms wide and invites Roger for a hug. 

Roger sighs again and falls into Freddie's embrace a millisecond too soon too desperate. He lets his head rest once more on Freddie's shoulders and his arms drape around his neck. They sway together and despite the open window, it's warm. 

At least Roger smells better now that he is back with Richard. His hair is washed and a soapy smell clings to his skin.

Freddie rests his chin on top of the crown of Rogers head and takes a deep breath. 

"Sorry I keep pushing you."

In return he gets a cold nose against his neck.

"Sorry I don't listen to your advice, even though I know you're right." Roger fiddles with the loose strings on Freddie's sweater. He picks at the wool and worries his lips between his front teeth. "I feel like I'm out of options."

"Darling," Freddie sighs with a sad smile and tips Rogers chin up. "There is always a choice." 

★☆★

"Freddie?"

"Yes, Darling?" 

The three of them are eating in the backyard close to the toolshed, most likely for the last time that year. The next three months will be too cold for outside dinners, perhaps tonight is too. Freddie had put several sausages on the grill and Brian had chopped up a salad. 

Huddled around a homemade bonfire, they each hold their plates on their laps and sit in the plastic yard chairs.

Brian in particular is cold and has his feet wedged under Johns thighs on his chair. "I was wondering how Roger is doing?" 

Freddie has to swallow down his mouthful before he can reply, but he has nothing good to report.

"Not too well I'm afraid." Freddie sighs, picking at his slightly burned sausages with his fork. His head feels heavy and he rests his forehead in his palm. "Today when he came in he had these horrific marks on his wrists, as if he had been held down. There were fresh needle tracks telling me he has permanently returned to drugs and there were fingerprints around his neck. He was held down and—"

John, not unlike the other day, throws his hands up in the air incredulously.

"Can't I just enjoy my dinner?" 

"Jesus Christ." Brian curses, closing his eyes. "That's awful."

"I don't understand— why can't we talk about the football? The newest Dracula movie? How my mum is doing?"

Freddie turns to John and plasters a faux smile on his face. "How is your mum doing, John?"

"She is fine thank you." John smiles back, before shoveling half a sausage into his mouth. "Was that hard?"

"A little." 

It isn't completely fair to John, who's exhausted to the bone and barely clings onto consciousness at 7 in the evening, if the shadows under his eyes are anything to go by. Freddie should go easy on him, despite the sensitivity of the subject.

There is no animosity in the air. John gives him a wink and Freddie offers him an air kiss. 

From the corner of his eye, Freddie can see Brian rolling his eyes at their childishness, but he decides not to comment on it. Like Freddie his mind is occupied with the worries for Roger and whatever he is doing right now. 

★☆★

Freddie rememberers a time when Brian was mortified walking the cats with him. The five of them are on leashes and eagerly snuffling their way forward. Brian holds two of the strings and doesn't complain when there are people staring at their parade.

They make their usual lap around the pond in the park close to their little home.

It is Freddie's rare moment of fresh air and even rarer moment alone with Brian, while John is at home passed out on the couch after his eleven hour shift today. 

They walk all the way to the tallest tree of the park where Goliath likes to relieve himself and the couple decides to stop a few steps further to watch over the fish in the pond. Far away from the dogs running loose, but in close proximity of other people.

Freddie glances sideways at Brian after long staring at the cats playing in the grass behind them.

Brian had his cold hands shoved into his coat and his eyes are down at the golden fishes spluttering aimlessly in their confined spaces. One would notice Brian is unhealthily thin and oddly pale, but to Freddie he is improving much from the motionless person he was in the hospital bed only weeks ago. 

There are people looking, so Freddie has to resist standing on the tips of his toes to plant a kiss on Brians slightly flushed cheek. 

"You are looking good, Dear."

The corner of Brians lip quirks sideways and he nudges Freddie with his shoulder. "Are you flattering me?" 

"Absolutely not!" Freddie chuckles, he pushes Brian back with a lot less power. He doesn't want to think of his boyfriend as fragile, but his current condition could only describe him so. "I'm just, happy I suppose. I want to be happy about the things that are going well."

Brian kicks at the damn dirt under the grass. He looks down at his muddy shoes.

"You're trying not to think of Roger?"

Freddie shakes his head and he shrugs. "Can you blame me?"

"No."

The cats tug on the leash and Freddie has to turn around to tut at them and be careful not to pull too hard and hurt their delicate necks. 

He knows Brian finds it amusing when he speaks to the cats as if they were humans, bur it wouldn't be as funny if the cats didn't listen, calmed down and still looking at each other with narrowed eyes after a rough playfight. They rest at Freddie's feet, content to just lay in their backs or their bellies, curled into one another. 

Freddie turns back to look at Brian, who has effectively ruined his shoes with the hole he is digging in the mud. 

"Do you think Roger will be okay?" 

Brians child like innocence will never seize to surprise Freddie. His tone is high and hopeful, as if he were asking his father if there is a monster under his bed. Or send a letter to the Queen mother asking if they may stop the annual fox hunts. 

He knows he is often labeled as the guidable one by his two lovers, but Freddie can't help but think the same of them in other moments.

"He will be okay if he allows himself to be helped and you said so yourself, some people don't want to be helped." 

For a moment Brians face falls and the crestfallen expression makes Freddie almost feel like it is his fault. He reaches out to link an arm with Brians arm, an innocent touch to a stranger, but the love in his eyes is undeniable. 

"I won't stop trying, okay?"

Brian nods. "Okay."

"There is only so much we can do right now, but we will support him wherever he allows us to."

Brians head continues to bop almost too fast for Freddie to catch the tears threatening to fall over the brim of his sad eyes. 

"Hey now." Freddie tugs on his arm warningly and gives him a warm smile which he hopes comes across more convincing than he actually feels in his own heart. "I've never met an addict who's not relapsed at least once during their recovery. It is a small setback and it means nothing in the long term."

Hesitant to accept this as an answer, Brian sighs deeply.

Besides being childlike at times, Brian is also the biggest pessimist Freddie has ever met.

"Why can't he just dump Richard and work at a local supermarket? What about that is so difficult for him to grasp?" 

Freddie shakes his head and if he had an hand to spare he would pinch the bridge of his nose.

"That's _unfair_ , Bri. Richard has been the only consisted factor in Rogers life. You can't blame him for needing that one thing to grasp onto, you really can't." He has stopped holding Brians arm to instead poke a finger against his chest. 

Brian is surprised to be talked to in such a manner. His raised eyebrows make Freddie clear his throat and retreat his hand.

The taller man deflates with a sigh and the cats grow restless in their moment of silence. 

They circle their ankles and tangle their leashes together.

Freddie and Brian are forced apart to untangle the mess before it becomes unsolvable. Freddie lifts both Tiffany and Delilah into his arms so Brian can help him step over the leashes and undo the quickly formed knots.

People really are looking now, but Freddie only has eye for his boyfriend.

When Brian is done freeing Freddie from the cats, he wishes he could beckon Brian close for a kiss, but not in public. Not with the strangers.

They exchange a brief smile. 

Freddie silently lets Brian know he holds no resentment, Brian after securing Tiffany and Delilah back onto the grass, caresses Freddie's shoulder over his coat lovingly. The touch warms up his belly and he flushes. "Let's go home, see if John is up for a movie."

"Sounds like a plan."

Shoulder to shoulder with their hands brushing against one another with every step, Brian and Freddie walk the tired cats back home. 

In the comfortable silence, Brian speaks up first. 

"Will you tell him I said hi?" 

Freddie's smile brightens. The telltale sparkle in Brians dark eyes reminds him of the day they met John. 

"Sure."

★☆★

"You still mad at me?"

John tries not to smile, but Freddie can see the corner of his lip quirk in the darkness before he rolls over to look at him. 

"No." He says in a quiet voice.

Brian is fast asleep between them. They have propped themselves up with their elbows to look over his tall shoulder. Freddie is tired, but an uneasy feeling has kept him from properly nodding off. Johns two hour nap messed up his sleep schedule as well. 

Freddie takes the initiative and leans over Brian to lift up Johns chin for a kiss.

The familiarity makes Freddie smile and John let out a content sigh. Freddie slings his leg over Brians so he can touch John with his foot. 

"I love you."

"I love you too." They have to be quiet and Freddie has the lousiest whispering voice amongst them. He tries to stay silent while they breathe the same air. John splays a warm hand around his neck to prompt him closer. "You have no idea how worried I am. Day in day out."

"For me?" John nods. Freddie gasps. "No need for that, Darling. I am perfectly fine."

There's a sad smile on Johns face, showing no teeth. "You're telling me _not_ to worry about your crack addicted prostitute friend secretly hanging around your workplace? Taking all your spare money you should be using for shopping trips and a fix on your car."

Freddie lies without blinking. "I don't know what you're taking about." 

It seems dangerous how far Johns eyes roll back into his skull before he leans forward to cradle Freddie's cheeks between the palms of his hands.

"You need to listen to me,"

"John—"

" _No_ , listen." John squishes Freddie's cheeks with his hands. Freddie quiets down with a huff. "He will keep plucking your feathers until you're bald. He has you in the palm of his hand, you have a crush. He bats his eyelashes, you fawn."

Freddie's eyebrows narrow and he stiffens in Johns touch.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't?" John chuckles, but without a sign of amusement in his voice. The shrill sound echoes off the high ceiling. "It's painfully obvious. You have no idea how deep you are and frankly, I have no idea how to stop you from harming yourself." _Again_.

Abruptly Joh pulls away and rolls over to his other side so his back is facing his boyfriends.

"John." Freddie frowns.

He is the only one left to sit upright. "John, Darling. Don't be silly."

Freddie throws his arms up in the air in annoyance. John is ignoring him and stubbornly holding his breath so that not even his shoulders move. 

Between them, Brian snorts out a loud snore, before unceremoniously rolling onto his back. 

_Fine_.

Freddie feels like Spiderman, maneuvering his left leg over Brians waist followed by his left arm onto the headboard. He slings his right leg underneath him, until he bounces down on top of John— who lets out a surprised 'oof' at the sudden weight on top of him. 

"What the hell are you doing!" He whisper yells.

Freddie chuckles, now straddling Johns lap. "Making you pay attention to me."

It takes a long suffering sigh before John wraps his arms around Freddie's waist and beckons him close against his bare chest. 

John likes to sleep mostly bare. Brian is in a full matching pajama set and Freddie has his satin slip ons. 

It gives Freddie the freedom to trail his fingers over the softness of Johns mostly bare chest. He will never grow tired of felling his heart beat under his palm or the warmth radiate off of him. 

Freddie leans down and craves to kiss the center of his sternum. 

Long fingers find their way into Freddie's hair, sweetly stroking it back behind his ear not unlike the way Freddie likes to caress Roger when he allows him to. 

"I love you, Fred. You need to learn how to listen to me."

"You need to learn how to trust me." Freddie says, pecking Johns still parted lips. "Can you do that?"

John nods.

"I trust you. I just don't trust all those other people out there, out to exploit you."

"That's not Roger."

"So you say." John kisses him again. "So you say."

★☆★

"I don't think I can go to the support group anymore."

Freddie nearly cuts off the tip of his index finger as soon as the words have left Rogers mouth. The knife clatters to the floor and Freddie quickly sucks the finger with the small incision into his mouth. 

Roger winces. "Sorry."

"What—? Why?" Freddie completely abandons their lunch to stare up at Roger with wide eyes. 

It is hard to keep the disappointment and slight frustration out of his voice. Even when Roger hugs his knees closer to his chest out of self defense.

"Roger," Freddie closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "What happened to recovery and getting better? What happened?"

Even though his eyes are closed Freddie knows Roger is shrugging, what he always does. 

"Richard doesn't like it."

"You don't have to tell him."

"I didn't!" Roger cries out. "I tell him I'm with a client, but people won't cover for me forever and I don't make enough money to cover the hours that I am at the support group."

"I don't understand." Freddie says. 

He is on his knees in front of the coffee table, previously cutting up cucumbers for their salad. He crawls closer to Roger on the sofa with his hands cradled to his chest. 

"Roger, I don't understand. You need to explain it to me."

Roger is glaring up at the ceiling, utterly frustrated as he picks on the skin around his nails, before cursing under his breath. 

He lets out a long suffering sigh, before he throws his arms up. 

"Fine."

He shifts until he is facing Freddie and slinks down onto the floor opposite of him with his back against the edge of the couch and knees spread unceremoniously. Freddie prepares himself as well, crossing his legs and leaning in until their knees are touching. 

Roger folds his arms over his lap. He stares at Freddie with an unreadable expression. Freddie gives him an encouraging nod in return. 

"You've seen it before," 

Freddie raises his eyebrow, but before he can voice his question, Roger rolls up the sleeve of his shirt until he brandmark is visible. 

The thick scar tissue makes Freddie shiver.

Roger trails his finger over the symbol. "I'm part of the Bull Crew, Richards branch falls under their authority." 

"Okay?" Freddie drawls out, trying to make sense of it.

Roger lowers his sleeve once more and continues in a low voice, despite nobody else being in close proximity to hear them. "It's a gang that covers most of the north and east sides of London. Trying to infiltrate on the South now too." 

_Of course Roger is in a gang._

Freddie gulps. "Right."

"Richard sells drugs in his districts, but prostitution is his side business. He looks after us and has to give a percentage of his earnings to the Bull Crew leader, but the rest of the profit he can keep for himself." 

Roger explains everything with vivid hand motions, going back and forth and making wide gestures. Freddie can only focus on the blue of his eyes and the tense set of his jaw. 

"There are multiple Bull Crew members like Richard who hustle in prostitution in the North East sides of town and to fight competition amongst ourselves it is all coordinated by the same persons. These are the people that are on the streets watching if the prostitutes are working. Every time I take a client I have to show them the money I have earned, they write it down for administration. Let's say what if I disappeared for two hours and come back with no money? This gets written down." He explains, slowing down to clear his throat. 

Freddie blindly reaches behind himself on the coffee table and grabs Rogers half empty cup of tea. He carries it over to him, Roger takes it gratefully even though it is no longer warm. 

He sips. Bangs falling over his eyes.

If he was Brian or John, Freddie would have reached out to brush the hair away and plant a kiss to his forehead.

But he is not one of his boyfriends. He is Roger, with the brandmark, needle tracks and the specks universe in his eyes. 

"Things happen, right?" He starts again with a throat less hoarse. "Sometimes you get beaten up and left with no money. Or you get threatened and told to leave without a payment. Those things happen occasionally, but me leaving every other evening for 3 hours, without making any money is suspicious. So much so that I have to pay the guy who coordinates the prostitutes to stay quiet." 

_Payment_ in Rogers world means something different than in Freddie's world. Freddie tries not to let his emotions show on his face, but Roger looks away nonetheless. 

Avoiding further eye contact completely.

"Anything can go wrong. One day the coördinator will be someone who won't be attracted to men, what do I give as a payment? One day Richard will notice the money difference. One day is not far away." He says, his finger hooks under the elastic lining of his socks, which Freddie recognizes as his own, from the day Roger had relapsed. Roger fiddled with the hem to calm himself down.

Freddie looks up at his face and sees it mostly covered with the strands of his locks. 

"But... Support group is only an hour and a half. Why would you be gone for over three hours?"

"I have to walk there for an hour if the busses aren't going." Roger worries his lip between his teeth when he peeks at Freddie from between his hair. Looking obscenely guilty. "Freddie... I don't think I can do this anymore."

Freddie's heart sinks. He dreads the words, so much so that he covers his own mouth with his hands. 

He shakes his head frantically, heart pounding. Roger looks away. 

"Don't say that, Darling."

"When he finds out I went to a drug support group or that I'm seeing you, I don't know what he'll do to me." 

His voice is thin and he rubs on the yellowing bruises around his wrists. Freddie doesn't want to imagine what had happened to him and what the fears fueled by Richards threats are doing to him right now. Sitting on the floor with his eyes lowered in uncharacteristic meekness. 

Tears spring into Freddie's eyes and he has to take a shuddering breath before he can reach out to wrap his hands around Rogers wrists delicately and cradle them against his own chest. 

Rogers wrists are sickly thin and fit easily in Freddie's palms. 

He ducks his neck down to search eye contact with those light blue eyes. There is no smile on his face, only stone cold determination. 

"What can I do?" 

"I don't know if I can keep coming here Freddie." Roger doesn't struggle against Freddie's touch, but he does flex his fingers until they rest flat on Freddie's chest. He looks sideways at the plastic plant in the corner of the office to avoid eye contact. "He'll find out. I'm in so much trouble if he finds out." 

"Stop that,"

Freddie tugs gently on his wrists. Roger blinks up at him finally. "I don't want to hear that. Tell me what I can do to help?" 

★☆★

_Richard is a brutal man._

_The day Roger returns he can tell things haven't changed._

_The apartment is unusually busy at this hour of the day. The news of his return had spread amongst the others, some are sitting up on their mattresses, others are dead asleep from taking drugs._

_When he enters the living room they all fall silent. He knows his appearance isn't what it used to be._

_The looks in their eyes are unbearably sad and the worry weights heavy in the dusty air, they know what is awaiting Roger now that he is back. They don't speak or ask how he is faring._

_Roger doesn't have much time to catch up with them. Or reassure them._

_A broad hand wraps around his wrist and Roger is silently dragged back into the hallway in the direction of the bathroom by Richard._

_"Clean up." He grunts. "You stink."_

_Roger is instantly tempted to walk out the front door. He could make a sprint for it, now that Richard is fiddling with unlocking the bathroom door with his masterkeys. The keys confining cupboards in the kitchen and the off limited rooms in the apartment._

_His eyes linger on the keys and then back on the front door. Out there is cold and insecurity, but also opportunity as far as hope._

_In that moment Roger can't breathe._

_"I want you in the bedroom in five. Don't make me wait."_

_He is pushed into the bathroom and made to shower. Richard isn't actually there to assist him, but Roger knows from past experience what is expected of him._

_The water is cold, Roger can't stand standing under the spray for longer than twelve seconds at a time, which isn't enough to wash himself down, clean his hair and open himself up._

_It isn't asked of him to finger himself before he has to go to Richards room. He doesn't have to, but the last time he made the mistake not to prepare himself had been the most agonizing pain in his life._

_There is no lube, that means that there is only so much he can do to comfortably stretch himself. He goes on to wash his face and get rid of the awful stench that's been clinging to his skin for the past week. Richard likes to humiliate him at times, but at least he has a bottle of soap balanced on the edge of the shower Roger can use to feel human again._

_The water becomes so cold Roger feels his heart beat slow down._

_He steps out onto the tiles, freezing and shivering. There is a towel laid out for him, which is still damp from when one of the other residents had used it today. In the mirror his lips are purple and his face is sunken._

_It is better to stop looking. Roger makes quick work of wiping himself down efficiently._

_The last thing he wants is to further irritate Richard and worsen the punishment already laid out for him._

_The clothes he was wearing he leaves on the floor in the corner of the bathroom. Except for the socks he recognizes are Freddie's from the adorable kitten pattern on them. They make warmth bloom inside of him. He hides those in the back of the drawer with tampons and pads, where Richard wouldn't find them and others wouldn't look for clothes to wear._

_Roger is terrified when he steps out of the bathroom completely bare except for the towel around his waist._

_The door to Richards room is usually locked, now it is wide open with Richard nowhere in sight. That doesn't reassure Roger whatsoever. He still contemplates making his way out the front door, despite his nudity and the howling wind outside the rattling windows._

_He knows not what exactly will be done to him, but he knows it won't be easy to endure._

_Roger doesn't know how long he stands in the hallway against the bathroom door. His legs jump into action only when he hears creaking of the wooden floor under heavy feet coming from the kitchen. Roger all but leaps into Richards bedroom where nothing has changed._

_The bed is made, the window is blacked out and the closet is still locked._

_He falls face first onto the mattress. The towel pools around his waist to feign modesty._

_The footsteps he heard were indeed Richards. He squeezes his eyes closed when the bedroom door clicks closed behind the other man._

_Every nerve in his body is alert when Richard shuffles into the room._

_Roger had hoped to get heroin before the inevitable punishment, but no such mercy is shown to him._

_Not many words are exchanged between them that evening. The loudest sound in the room is that of his own muffled breaths._

_The bed dips and Roger feels Richard hovering over him before he actually touches him. The smell of his cigarette burns through the fabric of the pillow. Roger holds his breath and silently begs for it all to be over soon._

_Richards fingers wrap around Rogers neck and he squeezes._

_His hand is broad enough to nearly cut off complete air circulation. Rogers eyes roll back into his skull and he chokes._

_As much as he tries to stay still, Rogers body begins to thrash involuntarily._

_His fingers curl into the duvet and his legs try to squirm his attacker off of him without success._

_Roger counts the seconds into his head. Twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven—, he coughs and his lungs burn with a longing for oxygen. Spots appear on the black of his vision. Desperate tears seep into the pillow._

_"Shut up." Richard grunts, holding Roger down with his weight. "I said shut up!"_

_Roger chokes out a cry when he feels the burn of the cigarette butt against his bare shoulder blade. It will cause a scar matching the ones already littering his skin._

_His body thrashes harder to get away from the assault. If he had the breath to do it, Roger would sob._

_Just before blissful unconsciousness creeps up on him and his legs stop kicking, Richard stops._

_Roger doesn't get much time to catch his breath. He heaves and tries to sit upright, but the sound of Richards belt coming undone makes him try to get up, run, beg, fight, bur the first crack of the whip that comes down on his back makes him collapse back onto the bed like a rag doll._

_"Take it. Shut up and take it."_

_The leather cuts into his skin and Roger is paralyzed._

_It is a pain he had never experienced before._

_The strength that goes into Richards beating is inhuman. Roger sees hot white upon every impact._

_Struggling is useless. Richard has a knee on his back that keeps him down._

_The shock takes over his fight instinct, his legs stop thrash’s and his hands shake uselessly. He lays face down on the mattress, body rigid under the white hot pain of the leather whip. The iron clasp causes immediate bruises upon impact. The belt makes Roger gasp into the pillow each time, sweat pours off his brow and the pain is almost too intense for him to feel anything at all._

_Richard whips his back and shoulders, until he draws blood. Time is meaningless. Roger had no idea how long he is assaulted. When the belt is dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, Richard lowers his pants and fucks Roger. Quick and rapid like an animal._

_Roger doesn’t remember much of that. He had floated off into space somewhere during his violent assault._

_Richard pulls out as soon as he is finished and leans forward to whisper into Rogers earshell._

_"You don't know what you have coming if I ever catch you disobeying me again."_

_Roger whimpers blearily for mercy when his arm his is grabbed and tilted up in the air. His entire body is sore and bruised, every small movement shoots hot stinging pain to his entire nerve system. He barely feels the small familiar prick of the needle at all, before cold fluid blissfully enters his bloodstream._

_Roger is violently shaking in the aftermath. Tears blur the vision of the dark silhouette looming over him._

_Richard lowers his arm and climbs into bed next to him. Roger is too weak to struggle against Richards embrace, even though the weight of the duvet on his bruises makes him sob. He is made to cry against Richards chest._

_"Sleep." Richard orders. His lips brush against Rogers ear. "Sleep."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do leave me a comment! I love them!! ~~ the story is about to get interesting


	6. Of Home and Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in Rogers shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is a special little chapter? We get a glimpse into Rogers life. ;)))

The first thing Roger registers when he wakes up is the clock on the wall. It is hard to read in the darkness with his poor eyesight.

He has to squint before manages to see where the hands are pointed. 

It reads 5:30 pm. Meaning he is late.

The second thing he notices is someone's elbow digging into his side. He politely rolls over— only to collapse against another sleeping body.

Roger mumbles an apology that falls on deaf ears. The old mattress gives in almost fully under his weight when he gets to his feet. The after effects of the heroin he took last night has now left him nauseous and dizzy. He nearly tumbles onto his nose when stumbles over someone, who groans.

"Sorry." He cringes. 

There is currently eight of them out on the floor, spread out over the number of mattresses scattered across the living room. The windows are blacked out and he makes no effort to turn the lights on in consideration of everyone who is asleep and doesn't have to work. 

Roger tip toes over to the kitchen. His bare feet catch stray crumbs off the floor and the durst in the air irritate his eyes. 

The kitchen is in a similar state as the rest of the house, dirty and unkept. The fridge is predictably empty, other than Richards prohibited foreign beer bottles. 

On the stove sits a carton box with chinese leftovers.

Roger finds a decently clean spoon in the back of the cutlery drawer and digs into the remains of rice and whatever meat he cannot identify. Richard hadn't left much, but it is enough to make Rogers stomach stop howling pathetically at its emptiness. 

He leans against the counter and eats in silence. The only noise in the room is of breathing and stray snores. 

The bodies strewn about high on drugs have been a normal sight for as long as he can remember living here. Once his mother was a part of them too. Because at the time he was a child, Richard had arranged a mattress underneath the largest window for just the two of them. They, unlike the other residents had pillows and a blanket.

When Winney died, Roger had kept the privilege of sleeping on his single mattress under the window, if he wasn't in Richards bedroom. 

Such privileges have been lost since he has ran away. He had betrayed Richards trust and lost his status with the older man.

"Hi."

Roger startles, hand clutching his chest. "Jesus!" He whisper yells. "Can't sneak up to me like that."

"Sorry— hey. You okay?" 

Imogen is much taller than he is. He has never met a woman quite so tall. Her thin skeleton like build made her seem even lankier. She looms over him like an aged tree, not older than 35, but people age badly in this environment. But never her soft green eyes.

They hadn't spoken since he returned. He hasn't talked much at all.

"As good as can be. Got anything for me?"

She nods. From her back pocket she presents him a small sack containing white powder. Imogen drops it into his palm. " _He_ wants to see a rise in profit, it requires more energy."

"So coke it is." Roger doesn't like coke as much as dope. Heroin is an addiction, an extension of himself. Cocaine can be used as a means to give him an energy boost and keep him on his feet a moment longer. The lasting effects of heroin are catastrophic and if it weren't for an occasional hit of cocaine, Roger wouldn't be able to work at night. 

Imogen lines the cocaine up on the counter with an expired credit card.

Gossip has it that she fell into prostitution after she had gone bankrupt three times over. The very cards she uses these days had supposedly gotten her here. 

Roger snorts two lines.

All tonight requires is an energy boost. Nothing else. 

Imogen takes the remaining three lines. Roger gathers the remaining powder on his finger and rubs it on his gums, leaving them blissfully numb. 

"Come on, put on some clothes and get busy."

"Alright." He bops his head. His blood is already beginning to pump and his heart beat picks up dramatically. 

The previous hunger and sleepiness drain away while they shuffle into the living room. 

There they have a tall closet where they keep their collective clothes. None of them truly fit him, they're sink washed and old. Most of it is stolen, or picked up from charity shops. 

Roger chooses the warmest sweater over his tank top and tightest jeans in the pile. Imogen is less lucky. Her legs are bare from the knees down in a dress and the coat she grabs is completely stained. 

She doesn't complain, he doesn't comment on it. 

Before they leave the flat, Roger makes a stop in the bathroom. Richard isn't in the house, but he still locks the door behind himself. In the bathroom he finds Freddie's socks in the back of the drawer, where he had left them.

He rolls them onto his feet, over his own socks which have holes in them. 

Sitting on the toilet seat with his eyes closed, his legs drawn to his chin and rocking with nervous energy, Roger likes to imagine what Freddie might be doing now. He does it more and more often in quiet moments. Hopefully he is warm inside, at home, surrounded by his cats and given a homemade meal. Tomorrow is their next appointment and Roger looks forward to—

"Rog," A knock on the bathroom door. "Love, we're gonna be real late. Don't want to get in trouble."

Roger climbs to his feet and before he leaves the safety of the bathroom, wriggles his toes to see the cats on the socks dance.

"Coming." 

★☆★

The Bull Crew got their monopoly on Menom Road long before Roger began working for Richard.

Menom Road is downtown Londons most booming prostitution district. 

The cops don't want to get their hands dirty in the area, too much gang violence, too much crime they can't sink their teeth into. There is no competition anymore on this side of town, not from other gangs or the mafia. Clients are aware of their anonymity and safety of their crimes on this block. 

The Bull Crew have successfully managed their terrain. 

The working girls and a stray boy, like Roger, line up on the sidewalk, illuminated by the stale lighting of the lampposts. Each of them shiver in their skimpy clothes and drugs raddled bodies. 

They wave or whistle at the cars that slow down for them, luring in their next client like sirens in open water. 

There is a familiar green colored Ford Consul parked on the end of the street. 

Imogen trails after him as Roger makes his way over to beaten up vehicle. Inside sits Andrei, much to Rogers relief. Andrei is tall and broad, which is to be expected from the men managing the prostitutes on Friday nights. He sits with the car door open, one foot in and one out of the car and the clipboard in his lap.

"Ladies." He looks up, a smile plays behind his scruff as he addresses Roger, "Haven't seen you in a wee bit." 

"Well I'm back now." 

There is never much chit chatter, but Andrei finds him easy on the eye. 

Roger rolls his sleeve up to show his mark, a formality, because Andrei had seen it many times before and knows who he is, who he belongs to. 

"Right, thank you." 

Andrei uses the pen behind his ear to check the box behind Rogers on todays schedule. Officially clocking him in for his shift. He then reaches for the box in the passengers seat, when he shifts Roger can see the back of his gun sticking out of his pocket. He gives Roger a number of condoms, mints and a bottle of lube. Roger saves them in his backpocket. "No more funny tricks from you?" Andrei asks.

Roger smirks, he steps out of the way for Imogen to check in as well. He is already walking towards the sidewalk and stripping off of his unflattering hoodie.

"You know me, right?" He calls back— lining himself up behind the girls jiggling their breasts towards one of the cars. 

Andrei shakes his head. 

★☆★

Roger doesn't get to be too picky with his clients. 

He has set certain boundaries for himself. He refuses bondage and sex with more than three people at once. He likes the illusion of control. He likes to think that if he isn't tied up, he can leave the client whenever he wants. He likes to believe he can fight off up to three people by himself.

If someone seems dangerous to him, he is trained to say no. 

There is no profit in a dead prostitute after all. 

Roger has never gotten pleasure out of sleeping with a client. 

He might as well have been a lifeless doll for the men, no unlike this client now, who holds him down and have their way at him. Rogers face is sideways on the squeaking bed. He counts. _Four hundred and eighty six. Four hundred and eighty seven. Four hundred and eighty eight_. Clients don't tend to last long. 

The mans iron grip on his hips will bruise, but they won't stand out. 

Rogers breath hitches on a particular hard thrust. He squeezes his eyes closed. Hot shame washes over him. _Shame. Shame. Shame._.

"Yes," The man grunts. His hips stutter. "Do that again. I want to hear you." 

Before, the nameless client had been a quiet one. Small, still in suit from work. He barely uttered a word after leading Roger into the motel room only a block away from Menom Road. Roger had taken the liberty to take off his own clothes and toss the man a condom, else they would still be staring at each other across the room. Not making any money. 

Clumsy as he was, the man had barely caught the condom between his sweating palms.

Clients don't like wearing condoms, but Roger doesn't have time for a shower before he has to hop onto the next. They deal with it, a small price to pay for his services. 

"Moan for me. Please." He sounds ashamed of himself for asking, even though his penis is repeatedly penetrating Roger. 

Roger feels nothing but disgust for this man. No matter how clumsy or repressed homosexual he is. His stomach churns and anger makes Roger see red. He presses his lips together tightly and stays quiet in his last attempt to not completely submit himself. 

The client speeds up his pace. He lets out shuddering breaths and uncontrollable groans when he fails to stifle them. 

Roger claws his fingers into the duvet. Grinding his teeth.

No noise comes out of him, not when the client tumbles over the edge with a sorry excuse of a moan. Not when he pulls his limp penis out. Not when he disposes the condom in the bin. 

"H-how much?" 

That's when Roger tips his chin up and speaks. 

"Twenty five." A usual price for anal sex would be closer to twenty pounds or fifteen, but Roger can tell this man isn't familiar with the rates. He had been stupid enough not to ask before they had begun.

The man scrambles for the bills stuffed in his wallet. He stands in the motel room naked, face scarlet red.

Roger takes the money and climbs off the bed unceremoniously. He is out of the motel within two minutes and onto the street once again, though twenty five quid richer. 

Said motel is less than a five minute walk away from Menom Road. 

While he walks back to his post to report to Andrei to hand over his money, the exhaustion is catching up on him. He could use another hit of cocaine, to have his heart pumping and his blood soaring. 

As of now every muscle in his body seems to melt into the other. The lube between his thighs couldn't be sufficiently cleaned with the complimentary tissues and Roger feels disgusting as the substance sticks between his legs. If anything, Roger wants to be go home and have a hit to forget all about tonights encounters. 

Just as Roger steps forth to cross the road, a familiar red car stops in front of him.

The window rolls down. Roger uses the last ounce of willpower within him not to roll his eyes at the old man that appears before him, instead, he leans against the door with a faux smile and ducks his neck. 

"Mr Davids. Hi." He says, the man likes it when he plays coy and shy. 

Davids is a 65 year old man with a cleft lip and two wives. He is a regular, but not usually on Fridays.

"Roger," His eager grin makes Roger shudder. Sometimes he circles the block for hours until he catches a moment with Roger. He is a creep. "Need a ride back?"

_A ride_ includes a five pound blow job in the back of the car or a secret back-alley. 

Roger nods hesitantly, only for the innocent act.

"Thank you Mr Davids." 

He climbs in the car and they drive off. For five minutes they ride around the neighborhood. Davids talks. About his job, his golfing, his house and his kids. He doesn't like hearing Roger talk about his job, it ruins his fantasy. 

When the excitement has built, Davids has tented in his pants simply from boosting to Roger about his own life, he finds them an empty alley. 

Once outside and against the cold brick wall, Roger is pushed to his knees and made to act he doesn't understand what he has to do. Davids unclasps his own belt and 'guides' Roger through the whole process with a low condescending voice that turns Davids on more than Rogers lips around his cock ever could. They have done it a hundred times before, but when he ejaculates, Roger pretends to struggle. He whines and splutters. Davids shushes him and pets his hair back.

Davids thinks of himself as a good man, Roger hates him. 

"You're such a good boy. Such a good boy for me, Roger."

Roger pulls off with a bop. His jaw stays clenched when he gets his money alongside a 2 pound tip. Almost half more than his total rate. 

"Thank you Mr Davids."

The ordeal ends quickly after that. Davids drives him back to the Menom Road. Roger gets out of the car without a goodbye or a thank you. He knows Davids will come back.

With a grimace, Roger reports back to Andrei. He gives him the money he's made. Andrei notes it down alongside the timeframe.

Roger is send back to the sidewalk again. 

★☆★

There's a church some blocks away from Menom street. The Gothic tower was built in the 14th century and spirals high into the clouds and disappears into the sky. Today is a misty say, Roger has to squint to read the lettering on the clock. 

It's 8 pm. If he doesn't want to be late for support group he has to leave right now. 

At the corner of the street, in his trusted green car Andrei is counting the money Janice had just brought in. He is momentarily distracted, not the best in mathematics. Roger takes the opportunity to slip away from the sidewalk and disappear in the darkness.

The hoodie around his waist goes back over his head, autumn is nearly finished and the winter creeps up on England like a predator closes in on its unsuspecting prey. Roger rushes over to the nearest bus stop, shivering, he can buy a ticket with the money he withheld from Davids tip, which is a million times better than walking all the way there. 

The bus ride takes a good 20 minutes long, Roger drowses between stops, but jolts every time the bus' engine as much as stutters, up until his stop all the way across town. 

_Together Not Alone_ hires a classroom in a local primary school. 

On the outside one wouldn't suspect ex addicts to be gathering in there in the late hours of the night, but it is true.

Roger hurries through the open school gates, past the playground and parking lot. By the large blue school doors he stops and rings the bell to be let into the building. 

Their in-school meetings mean that they are seated behind sticky wooden tables and on wobbly seats. The walls are decorated with all sorts of art pieces, most of them are bad or simply unrecognizable, but one or two would stand out. Roger likes it to see them change every other week. He also enjoys to guess what assignments the kids had when they had to draw it. Last week it were dinosaurs, this week he isn't so sure of the theme. 

"Roger?"

He had been staring off at the wall for too long. All the eyes are on him. "Yes?" 

The woman who coordinates Together Not Alone is an ex prostitute herself. She is 57 now with sort grey hair and a motherly smile. Denise she called herself, but Roger suspects that might not be her real name. 

"Would you like the soup today or the rice?"

They always serve one hot meal during the session. Denise makes them at home and brings them in large containers and serves them in plastic cups for them.

"The soup would be nice, thank you." He says, having had rice for breakfast already. "Sorry."

"That's alright." 

His generous cup of soup is passed on in the circle until it meets him. Roger hadn't noticed his finger tips were numb from the cold until he wrapped his hands around the steaming cup. 

A meal is always nice between clients. Roger hadn't managed to find Imogen to get another cocaine hit and his energy levels had gone extremely low. The healing that comes with a warm meal are close to miraculous if you'd ask him. Denise is not the best cook, if Roger still fondly remembers the times his mother would cook, but she provides for him and the other unfortunate souls in the room. 

Once everyone has their meal they start the session.

By now he knows almost every person sitting around the circle in their cramped chairs, he knows their names, possible day jobs and their dirty secrets.

Not _all_ of the secrets, like he wouldn't share that he is a sex worker, but they all know enough to ruin each others lives.

The potential danger is overshadowed by the safety of the space. Led by Denise. 

Everyone is made to talk about their day and if they have experienced any setbacks. Leo talks about how he hasn't left the house for anything but the support group sessions. Jennifer admits to breaking down when her colleagues had insisted on her having a glass of celebration champagne. Lola has gone over her credit card limit again. 

"Roger," Denise sits two chairs away from him. She gives him an encouraging smile, not unlike Freddie. "How have you been?"

"Uuh...."

He is painfully aware of the fact that they have eyes and that they can indeed tell he isn't doing okay. This morning he had hardly recognized himself in the mirror, pale, bruised and skinny as he has become. 

Despite the rush of shame that comes over him, he has never seen anyone get insulted within the confined walls of the art classroom. 

He tells them about his relapse. He lies. Leaves out the gory details of the assault he experienced at the shelter, so that he can be left with a sense of dignity. He tells them he went back to living with his dealer. They don't judge him, most of them have relapsed at least once as well. Sometimes more than that.

"Thank you for sharing Roger. That's very brave of you."

_Brave_. Roger scoffs to himself and huddles into his hoodie to avoid more of Denise's intense eye contact. 

If he were brave, he wouldn't be here.

★☆★

Roger is forced to walk back to Menom road after support group. The busses don't drive this late at night.

The way back is agonizing. The cold wind catches through his hoodie and his feet drag over the pavement in his efforts to keep his body from collapsing and curling up behind a couple of trashcans.

He is tempted several times to stop and take a nap. Nodding off while he is walking is not a pleasant side.

Bypassers think he is a drunk because of his swaying, but Roger is painfully sober. 

The walk is an hour long. 

Which means that he had left his post for more than three hours since going to Together Not Alone. He knows he'll have some explaining to do, when he has finally made it to the green beaten up car at the corner of Menom Road. 

He greets Andrei with a knock on the already open window.

Andrei drags his eyes up from his Sudoku. At the sight of Roger leaning against his car with a lazy smile on his face and no money in his hands, the gang members purses his lips. 

"Gone for," A glance at his watch. "Three hours again. What excuse do you have this time?" 

"Someone tied me up and left me there without any money." Roger lies. Feigning innocence.

Andrei rolls his eyes, but he notes it down anyway. 

It is a small victory, Roger bends down to offer the older man a kiss as reward. He is halfway through crawling into the car, when Andrei puts a hand to his chest to push him out again. 

"I'm off my shift, but you owe me a handjob."

Roger steps away and nods, "Thank you." He says genuinely, with his hands on his heart.

Andrei has a soft spot for him even though the sturdy man doesn't like to admit it and promptly looks away— cheeks unmistakably pink.

"Fuck off and make some money." 

"Sure, Andrei. I see you tomorrow."

He sighs and shakes his head at his Sudoku. "Be careful out there."

"Will do! Will do." 

It is past rush hour, and even though most of the other prostitutes have gone, it takes a while before Roger finds a new client again. The streets are empty and eerily quiet, like the people next to him who are also anxious about the lack of money they are making. 

He is relieved when an expensive looking car rolls to a halt right in front of him. The window slowly rolls down and reveals a young looking woman.

It is rare, but not uncommon. 

She sticks her head out through the small opening. Her eyes rake over Roger with a comfortable confidence. 

"How much?" She asks. 

Roger steps closer and leans against the car door with a smile that barely twits the corners of his lips. The exhaustion filters down his already mediocre act. 

"Depends on how much you want." 

The door on the passenger side is pushed open and he is led into the car by her melodic voice, though that might just be his brain shutting off. He had to repeat the same cycle until it is 6 am and he uses whatever strength is left in his body to carry himself home. Though, he is half dragged down the streets by Janice. Who drops him onto the front steps of Richards apartment unceremoniously. 

She didn't have to take clients until the early morning hours, but had come back to Menom Road out of concern.

"Here." 

She offers him a smoke. They are nowhere near the quality of the cigarettes Freddie brings him, but anything is preferable over going inside the cursed flat. Even if that means Roger half dozes onto the cold stone steps with the cigarette dangling between his lips.

Janice sits down next to him and brushes the hair out of his face. 

"You okay?" 

"Yes." He lies with his eyes closed. He lays there with his head on the top step and his body splayed out over the rest of the front step. He feels lube between his thighs and the foul aftertaste of fluids at the back of his throat. He longs to scrape his insides raw to get rid of it.

"You?" 

She nods and lights her own cigarette while they watch the first beams of the sun come up between the flats before them. "Fine."

★☆★

It is warm inside, but the atmosphere is ice cold.

He comes back into the home where Richard, as per usual after their shifts at the end of the month, is counting money in a chair and wooden folding table by the front door. Making it that nobody can escape his irregular evaluations. 

Before Roger two others are in line waiting anxiously for their turn. The two girls tug their short dresses down their asses and one wobbles dangerously on the thin back of her worn heels. Richard handles their cases quickly, nothing abnormal is noted in their reports from the prostitute coordinators. Their schedules and income are consistent. 

Roger has to lean against the hallways wall. Even then he falls asleep twice on his feet and nearly topples against the person in front of him. 

Exhaustion meets new limits every day. 

Once Richard gets to Roger he is not impressed by the lack of profit this month. He studies Rogers monthly income with a frown, his thick eyebrows are drawn together. Even though the attention is not on him, Roger still finds himself squirming. 

Richard drops the papers onto the table and leans back with his arms folded. 

"You losing your flare?" 

Roger swallows. "I don't think—" 

"You were out for nearly 12 hours today. I expect a lot more for someone who supposedly works 12 hour shifts. What are you doing out there?" His voice is low and has a dangerous edge to it. 

Roger brain shortcuts and provides no adequate excuse. 

"I'm sorry." 

"Are you going to keep disappointing me?" Richard asks. 

Roger frantically shakes his head. Even though he is the one standing, he feels much smaller than him. "You've been fucking rich these last few days. Disappearing for a week, then refusing to take my drugs. Not making as much money as you used to." Roger flinches when Richard bangs his fist onto the table, though his reflexes are too slow to jump away. "Wash yourself and go lay face down on the bed. I got a client for you to make it up." 

Relief of not getting severely punished is short lived while he limps over to the bathroom. 

He knows he has to hurry for the consequence not to turn into a punishment. In his haste, at 8 am on a meal he had twelve hours ago, Rogers body catches up on him. 

He nearly faints while in the shower. 

He is starved and exhausted. His bones grind together with every second he has to stand on his bruised feet. Black dots appear on his vision and Rogers legs tingle, before he completely loses the feeling of his toes. He slides down and curls into a ball in the corner of the tiled walls. He drawn his legs up to his chest and hides his face against his knees while cold water beats down on his back.

He thinks about anything but having to get up again. 

The painting in Freddie's office. Tomorrows weather. His grandmothers spaghetti. The color of Freddie's eyes. The sound of birds the singing. The murmuring of Brians radio in the car. Denise's cheese sandwiches. The puppy he had as a child. 

A loud knock on the door jolts him awake. "Dan is here. You better be ready!"

★☆★

"Thank you."

"You're okay, Roger. It's no problem." Imogen has to help him limp out of Richards room when the client is done with him nearly an hour later. 

His doesn't have the strength to drag his own limbs to the living room.

"You're okay. I got you." 

He is gracelessly dropped face first onto the mattress. He manages to roll onto his side to relieve his backside. Roger draws his knees to his chest to make himself small, he is completely bare in the unheated room. 

Central heating as well as blankets are above their worth. 

"Im'gen?." His tongue doesn't cooperate to form a coherent sentence. His hand twitches by his head, though he cannot do much else. 

Through his slurring she must have recognized her own name and returns to his side moments later. She falls onto the last empty space of mattress next to him. His body bounces when she flops down, every single one of his muscles is stiff from the long day. His eyes are stinging with the need to rest. 

Tears well up in the corners as a cold shiver makes him ache. Imogen shushes him again.

Roger only calms down when he feels her wrapping a shoelace around his upper arm. She then traces his arm to find a vein in the darkness. 

"There you go, hey, it's okay. Go to sleep, it's done now."

The needle slides into his scar tissued skin with some difficulty, but he barely feels anything. Cool liquid shoots into his bloodstream moments later. Then Imogen pulls the needle out once again, disposing it somewhere Roger can't see.

The heroin sends a warm sensation over his entire body and all the pain will be numbed in less than a minute. 

Roger cuddles himself closer to Imogen to find himself some body heat. 

His eyes drift closed with the pull of the dope. He sinks deep into his own mind and everything else grows quiet. The breathing of his fellow prostitutes and his client leaving through the front door drown away.

The last thing Roger registers before he nods ff is that he is still wearing Freddie's socks. The last part of his body to go numb are his toes.

He wriggles them, before the bliss of darkness swallows his consciousness. 

Tomorrow he has to do it all over again.

★☆★

_"Hey you? Hey— are you okay?"_

_Freddie blinks up through his clumped eyelashes when the rain is suddenly blocked by a bright blue umbrella, held by a man with an even brighter smile._

_The rain had already done its work drenching Freddie, the umbrella had come too late. His soaked clothes already cling uncomfortably to his bones and he is shivering in the cold that comes with it._

_The stranger is taller than anyone Freddie had ever met. Yet, he seems harmless enough._

_"No." Freddie drawls, arms wrapped around himself. "I'm stranded in the bloody middle of nowhere! Rained absolutely wet."_

_The stranger has a warm melodic laugh. Freddie subconsciously inches closer to him._

_"Maidenhead is hardly the middle of nowhere..." He grins, though takes no offense. "I could take you to the nearest bus station if you'd like. You won't catch a cab from here."_

_Admittedly, the stranger is handsome and Freddie finds himself slightly embarrassed to shyly reveal he doesn't have any money on him._

_"Oh!" The stranger hums. "I'm sorry?"_

_"It's a long story. I just need to find my way back to campus before the—"_

_Freddie is cut off by the roaring of thunder in the distance. He grimaces at the sound and the grey clouds looming over them and the long rows of houses. The stranger mimics him._

_"— Before the storm hits..."_

_"I wish I could offer you some money, but I've not got a penny to my name right now."_

_He seems to genuinely upset with himself for not having what Freddie needs. Though Freddie is concerned about how he going to get back to his dorms tonight, it is not worth worrying the handsome stranger over. He shivers further and manages a purple lipped smile for the man._

_"That's perfectly alright. Don't let me hold you up on your way."_

_Freddie turns his back to the man and inches away from the umbrellas blissful protecting. He shoves his hands into his back pockets— finding that also wet._

_"What are you going to do with no money or bus ticket?" Instead of taking the easy out Freddie had offered, the man walks around him and again holds the umbrella over him. "Can I take you to a friend in the area?"_

_"Aren't you the friendly giant." Freddie's grin diminishes a moment later. "I'm afraid I lost the friend I had around here, that's why I am not safely inside as was advised by the newscasters. He also had a car to take me home tomorrow..."_

_"Oh."_

_Freddie kicks the shoe against the curb. Even his bloody socks are damp._

_Bradley breaking up with him was surprisingly_ not _the worst part of his day, his toes going numb definitely tops it._

_"Hey," Freddie nearly jumps when a warm hands lands on his shoulder._

_The strangers frowns while he smiles, looking equally concerned as he does friendly in a way Freddie had never seen before._

_"Don't look so gloomy. It's going to be okay."_

_"That's easy for you to say!" Freddie frowns, he has run out of patience and starts walking in what might be the direction to the highway, which he knows will lead to central London. He might also be walking further into the countryside for all he knows. His sense of direction isn't the best when rainwater seeps through his underwear._

_"Where are you going?"_

_Tall legs easily keep up with him._

_"If I stand still I'll freeze to death I'm afraid. Don't you have places to be?"_

_"No." He falls into step next to Freddie. For the third time the blue umbrella prevents more rain from beating down on him. "I'm Brian, by the way."_

_Freddie can't help his heart from fluttering when he looks up at the strange man to find him smiling._

_His curly hair fizzes from the rain exposure and he is red in the face from the fast paced walking. A red home knitted scarf is wrapped around his neck and his eyes are a deep oak color._

_"I'm Freddie."_

_"Freddie." Brian breathes, he pulls on his arm to bring him to a stop. "I got a flat only two blocks away from here, if you need a place to stay until the storm blows over."_

_He can hear his mothers voice in his head right now telling him he shouldn't be going into strangers homes in an unknown neighborhood._

_His hesitation must have shown on his face, because Brian deflates on a heavy sigh._

_"I swear I'm not a human trafficker or murderer."_

_Freddie bites his lip to keep himself from grinning. "Not a cannibal either?"_

_"No!" Brian exclaims._

_The wind takes his umbrella when he throws his arms into the air. It nearly swoops Brian off his feet and claps the whole umbrella inside out. Effectively breaking it._

_"Oh..." Freddie grimaces._

_The rain starts beating down on Brian now too. He is only wearing a thin vest._

_It is pouring and soon he will be in the same state as Freddie._

_He glances sideways at Freddie, before looking back at his broken umbrella, then at Freddie. "Now we gotta hurry home before we get a bloody cold! Come on!"_

_Freddie doesn't expect his hand to be grabbed. Neither does he expect to be pulled to run in the opposite direction back into the suburban area. Together with Brian, giggling as the first lightening bolt casts across the sky. They find their way into the tiny flat above the apartment of the old lady who's Brians landlord._

_She doesn't bat an eye when they come in holding hands. Or when Freddie stays the entire weekend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked it please please please do leave me a comment!!!!


	7. Of Confrontation and Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie goes the extra mile for Roger. They discuss the nature of Roger and Richards relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi readers, an important trigger warning for the flashback at the end of the chapter: self harm. All other triggers are tagged. Please be careful out there ❤️

"Here we are." Freddie announces while he brings the car to a stop. 

They are somewhere in Rogers neighborhood. He guesses about two blocks away from Richard actual flat, for secrecy reasons Roger likes the walk the rest of the way by himself. Im the hopes that Richard won't find him driving around with Freddie. 

He uncrosses his legs from the seat and Freddie catches a glimpse of pink under his trousers. 

"Thank you." Roger grabs his plastic bag from under the seat and on his way up he finally notices Freddie staring at him. 

He smiles back in wonder. "What?"

"Nothing." 

"What? Tell me." Roger drawls, nudging Freddie's shoulder with his own. 

"It's nothing," Freddie laughs. "You're wearing my socks." 

The smile doesn't disappear from Rogers face, but it is dimmed with uncharacteristic shyness. He tucks a strand of blond hair behind his ear and glances at his feet. "They're comfy."

Freddie turns the engine off to safe fuel. Now he is the one to nudge Roger. 

"Keep them, I'll bring you more."

"You don't have to—" 

"I want to." He insists. He rests his hand on Rogers shoulder and squeezes in a way he hopes is comforting. 

There is a lot he doesn't _have_ to, but wants to do for Roger.

They have just gotten back from the second support group session this week. They've fallen into a routine of Freddie bringing Roger up and downtown to safe money and travel time. It isn't easy to keep it a secret from John or Brian, it is more than suspicious to be out of the house until after ten. When Freddie is unavailable he gives Roger money for a taxi.

Roger likes to call it 'borrowing' money. Freddie doesn't expect to get it back. Neither is he keeping track of how much money he is losing.

"Thank you, for dropping me off." 

"Anything my dear, Oh!" He reaches for his wallet in his back pocket and fishes out a pound. "For the cab ride on Saturday."

He knows Roger isn't comfortable keeping the money for himself. Freddie presses it into his palm and folds his hand closed. 

"Take it." He insists.

Roger bites his lip before he accepts the money. His cheeks are slightly pink from the heat in the car and Freddie's soft gestures. 

His blue eyes are perfectly illuminated by the streetlights. Roger admittedly looks much better now that he is back living at Richards. His cheeks aren't as sunken and he regularly cleans himself, yet that doesn't take away how thin he is. How tired he looks. How the heroin pales and scars him.

"I owe you so much, Freddie." Roger whispers.

He sounds thoughtful rather than regretful or worried. Freddie tries to laugh it off. "Don't be silly Dear. You're perfectly—"

"I owe you everything. I mean it Freddie, you're a good person. I'd be nowhere without you."

"Don't say that."

Freddie wraps his arms tightly around Rogers shoulders. They fall into a hug with Roger mostly hiding his face in Freddie's shoulder, stalling the inevitable of having to face his life with Richard. 

He rubs his hand between Rogers shoulder blades and feels the bumps of his spine sticking out. Freddie sighs, it makes him sad to see Roger so dependent on him. He knows Roger thinks of himself as incapable, Freddie would do anything to take that away. 

"Roger, your life is in your hands. You have taken initiative to change, you can take control."

"I don't know."

Freddie pinches his shoulder, Roger whines. 

"That's not an answer, Darling, neither is it a solution." Roger pulls back slightly. The hug has ruffled his fringe, so Freddie takes the liberty to comb it back in order. "You decide you want to go to support group, you decide if you actively participate, you decide to come see me. That very first time it was _you_ who took the reigns and asked for help. You're in control." 

"I don't feel like I am." Roger admits.

Freddie can understand why. Parked a few streets away from his flat in fear of his boyfriend finding him in the car with another man, or other times in downtown London where Freddie drops him off while he knows Roger is forced to prostitute himself. Not to mention his dependency on hard drugs.

Helplessness is like blood for abusers. Richard is a shark. 

"You are an intelligent, capable, adult. Life hasn't been fair to you and that's why you feel like you've lost grip, but I know. I _know_ you're going to be okay." 

Rogers eyes are wide in surprise. They stare right into Freddie's soul.

"What do you know that I don't? How are you so sure?"

"Because," Freddie smiles, finally letting go of Rogers shoulders. "I believe in you."

An emotion flickers through Rogers gaze which Freddie cannot interpret. It isn't pride and it isn't fondness, but something with a hint of both. Sprinkled with a little bit of hope.

He retreats and reaches for the door handle. "I have to go."

"Of course," Freddie blows him a kiss as he climbs out of the car. "Be safe." 

Roger gives him a brief boyish smile. "Always." 

"That's from Brian as well!" 

Roger is pleasantly surprised by that. His eyebrows shoot up and a smile tugs on his lips as he pauses before he slams the door shut. "Oh... Give Brian a big thank you from me."

"I will." 

★☆★

"I got something for you." 

Freddie sneaks up to his lounging boyfriends on the couch. It is Sunday, John rarely gets called in to work on Sundays. He lays behind Brian with the older man resting against his chest, while they watch the television.

Well, until Freddie walks up to the set and turns the wildlife documentary off. 

"What's this about?" Brian yawns. He seems not at all phased by Freddie's interruption, or when Freddie comes crawling up the couch on his hands and knees. Behind him, John begins to cart his fingers through the tresses of his curly hair. 

Over Brians shoulder John gives Freddie a wink.

"Well, Darling," Freddie perches himself on his knees by the edge of the couch. John props Brian up slightly so that they can both sit upright.

Freddie is entranced by the manner John rubs the side of his face against Brians, kissing his cheek. He lets his arms slide from his hair down to his shoulders. Freddie follows in sync and moves his hands up Brians legs to rest heavily on his thighs.

"I think we owe you one." 

Before Brian can open his mouth, Freddie is fiddling with the strings of his sweatpants and drags them down Brians ass. Just down his thighs.

He is wearing underwear, but Freddie can already see him growing hard. His breath hitches.

"N-now? Here?" Brian stammers.

John smiles gleefully and continues to rub Brians shoulders. "Do you want to wait even longer? When was the last time you've had a blow job, Bri?" His tone is low and torturously hot. Freddie can feel himself growing hard as well while he fumbles Brian through the thin fabric of his underwear. Brian— the poor man, moans quietly and rests his head back against Johns without answering. 

"Say it," The youngest amongst them presses. "How long since you've been blown?" 

"T-three months." 

His cheeks are burned red and Freddie smirks. His palms slides over the packed semi-hardness. He wraps his fingers around the skin and gently squeezes, just to hear Brians breath catch and speed up.

John is looking at him with a dark lust in the dark of his eyes.

Freddie leans up and tips his chin for a kiss. John leans over Brians shoulder to seal it while neither of them stop their ministrations. 

"Three months, can't tease him too long than." John comments against Freddie's lips.

Sandwhiched between them, Brian nods and subconsciously spreads his legs further to give Freddie some room.

"Our poor, Darling." Freddie tuts. He pulls away from Johns lips to instead find Brians in a chaste loving kiss. "Have we been neglecting you?"

"No—oh!" Brian sighs when Freddie gives his cock a strong pump, followed by another.

The simple touch has his thighs trembling. Freddie is afraid Brian possibly could come from this. In the meantime John spreads his legs wider for Brian to sit comfortably against his chest. Brian scoots back and his feet fall flat onto the floor.

Freddie ceases the opportunity to pull his underwear away from his ass.

With Johns help he lifts Brians hips up enough to slide them down his legs alongside his sweatpants. His cock springs free and hangs in the air more than semi-hard.

Brians stomach muscles contract. He groans uncomfortably.

"No, no, no, you lay back and relax babe." John tuts. 

He keeps him down by his shoulders and kneads a little harder. He winks at Freddie before letting his lips ghost against Brians ear. "Let Freddie do all the work for you."

The sight of Brians full body shudder and his cock bopping up in interest makes Freddie's mouth water.

He eyes Brians impressive length. The tallest amongst the three of them. 

Freddie wraps his hand around him. The weight familiar in his palm. He gently strokes him two, three times. Brian groans against Johns cheek. Freddie continues to pump his cock until it stands completely erect against his stomach. 

Brians toes curl in the carpet when Freddie strokes down his foreskin to expose his sensitive head.

A beat of cum trickles from the slit.

"There we are." Freddie hums. He winks at Brian before he leans in to wrap his lips around the tip. 

"Ah! Fuck, yes." Freddie scrambles to pin Brians hips down to keep him from buckling up into his mouth. John also tries to calm him and keep him down. " _Freddie_ please. That's— fucking hell. That's good." 

He had forgotten how good it felt to have Brian in his mouth. How rich he tasted. How sweet his body reacts under Freddie.

Freddie closes his eyes and inhales through his nose while he suckles on the tip.

"Ngghh. More." Brians hands fly to Freddie's hair. 

They allow it because he keeps them there without applying any pressure. 

Freddie lets his tongue swirl over the dip and against Brians slit. Licking up the first beats of precum that cannot be contained. 

When Brians moans steadily become louder, he begins to trail wet kisses down his length to Brians balls.

He had always been extremely sensitive there.

Freddie steadies Brians thighs, before ducking his head to suckle on his balls. Sucking each of them into his mouth and closing his eyes to savior the taste and the loud groans coming from Brian. Johns soothing voice is the heaviest in the room, next to the wet sound of Freddie's ministrations.

Brian is inched closer to the edge than any of them expects. "Oh- s-stop! Slow down."

He scrambles to wrap a hand around the base of his cock to stop his orgasm. 

Freddie immediately pulls off at the sound of distress. He looks up at Brian and his frown melts into a smile at the sight of his flustered pink face. 

"Three months." Freddie chuckles, before kissing Brians red-still-wet-head. 

Johns hands have trailed to Brians chest somewhere during Freddie's time down there. His fingers roll Brians erect nipples between them. Steadily arousing him more and causing soft whimpers to fall from Brians parted lips.

"Isn't he stunning?" John asks Freddie, pinching Brian even harder. 

Freddie swallows thickly and nods. He pries Brians hands away from his cock. The poor man whines.

"Fred... I'm gonna cum." 

"That's the point, Darling." He pushes Brians chest back so he rests firmly against John again. "Let it happen."

Brian complies and closes his eyes when Freddie leans in to take him back into his mouth again. He lets go of Brians hips to instead fondle with his balls. 

"Fucking hell. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

His cock pulses when Freddie swallows him down to the root. He relaxes his throat and hollows his cheeks, after a deep breath he moves up until only the head is left in his mouth, before taking Brian all the way in again. His head hitting the back of Freddie's throat.

Brian buckles his hips into his mouth. Freddie swallows around him and hums. He rolls his balls under his palm. Brian whimpers. 

"Look at that. Look how good Freddie is taking you in. I can't believe you haven't given him your load yet. I'm almost bursting at the sheer sight of him."

Freddie bops his head up and down while Brian tries not to fuck back into his mouth too harshly. 

"Look at him. His lips wrapped around your little cock like that, he loves it. You taste so good, Bri. That's why he's trying so hard. He wants to taste your seed." 

Both Freddie and Brian moan at his dirty talk. Brians hips buckle up and Freddie lets the tears gather in the corners of his eyes gratefully.

"Be good for us, Bri. Wanna see you burst. Want to see Freddie suck you dry."

"Oh! Oh—" Brian sounds like he is sobbing, but Freddie can't tell other than his thighs shaking and his cock pulsing with need. "S-sorry. Sorry, Freddie. I w-won't last. Ah! Ahh!"

His chest heaves and John groans at the sight. "Don't be sorry Bri. Paint his mouth with your cum. Do it."

Freddie sucks harder. He slurps and gurgles around his length. 

John clenches his jaw. "Do it."

"Oh! Ohhh."

Freddie feels Brians cock pulse between his lips, before hot cum splutters from the opening. 

He swallows everything down, with the help of John who keeps Brian from accidentally kicking Freddie in the face, while he milks Brians cock and balls empty. Massaging both until whimpers in pain and tries to push Freddie off weakly.

Only when Freddie is sure he has had every drop of Brians cum, he pulls off of his spend cock with an obscene bop. 

He sits back on his heels, and licks his lips.

"Wow."

John chuckles, his arms wrapped around Brians waist while the older man hides his face in the crook of his neck to regain his breath. "Wow indeed." 

Freddie squeezes Brians thighs with the intend to be gentle, only to feel Brian tense under his hands. "You liked that Bri?"

It takes a moment before he gets a reply. 

Eventually with a nudge from John and an encouraging squeeze from Freddie, Brian finds his bearings. "Loved it." He pants, a dopey smile plays on his lips. 

Freddie leans in to press a loving kiss to his inner thigh. 

That's his big thank you.

★☆★

Freddie has always known Roger is an intelligent person. 

Despite lacking an academic background— Freddie suspects he might not even have finished high school, Freddie finds himself rarely not impressed by what Roger has to say.

Their conversations are long and they stray off topic. Roger doesn't seem very aware of what's going on in the world. Richard doesn't have a television set in the living room or a newspaper subscription for his prostitutes to keep up with world events. Yet Rogers presence is entertaining. 

Then Freddie finds out Roger is good with words.

The first time he brought out the Scrabble box during one of their many sessions, Freddie had to explain the game throughout the first round. With some guidance Roger took to Freddie's favorite pastime easily. 

Freddie rarely won after that first round. 

They spend todays session sitting on the floor of Freddie's office, not caring that 1968 was the last time that carpet was vacuumed. The board is set up on the coffee table between them.

Roger isn't looking too well today. Freddie suspects he might have taken drugs not long ago. His cheeks is flushed pink, but at the same time he is white as a sheet around the edges. Ever since entering the office he has been holding a piece of tissue to his runny nose, he is loopy and reacts in slow sluggish movements. 

Freddie knows he isn't suffering a common cold. 

His pupils are constricted and his hands shake uncontrollably whenever he puts down a tile. 

The sight of him is unpleasant. 

Freddie holds his tongue for a whole twelve minutes, of which he is proud, then he asks, "Are you going to stop taking drugs?"

Across the table Roger uses Freddie's tiles for ' _Rat_ ' to make 'Rathskeller'. He sits back on his calfs and shrugs without actually looking up. The lack of eye contact is nothing new, Freddie knows how to prod.

"We talked about this, Rog. You're the one who's in control. Not he." 

" _He_ makes me take it." Roger says with conviction Freddie cannot contradict.

He drags his eyes up to meet Freddie's across from him, when Freddie insistently pokes him with his foot under the table. It seems to take a lot of energy for him to do so. 

Going in and out of withdrawal is exhausting. The body lives in a constant limbo. 

It isn't easy to be stern with Roger. Especially because it isn't Rogers fault that he is pressured to take heroin. Or became an addict in the first place. Yet, Freddie wants to understand what it's like, why it isn't an option to live without the substances.

Freddie abandons the tiles he was organizing to see what other word he could form with X, O, G and L to make his way over to Rogers side, who immediately hides his tiles in a pile under his hand to prevent Freddie from peaking at them. 

"I'm not here for that!" Freddie exclaims in offense. "Just want to chat! Fuck the game." 

Roger smiles behind his tissue when Freddie scoots even closer. He clenches his knees to his chest, but otherwise doesn't move. There will always be caution from Rogers side whenever Freddie initiates physical contact, but he allows Freddie to sit down flush against his side with a warm hand on Rogers knee. 

There is always the risk of Roger leaving the room when Freddie starts to ask difficult questions.

Ever the optimist, he hopes today will be different.

Once he got his hip to his knee attached to Rogers', he asks, "Can you explain to me how? How does he force you to take drugs?"

Up close Roger is even more of a disaster. His eyes are sunken deep into his skull and the double bags under his sockets make him look much older than he could possibly be. 

Roger rubs his eyes with his free hand when sleepiness clouds his gaze. 

It doesn't help waking him up. Even though he has been endlessly showing up to his appointments, his fragility tells Freddie that he is one slip up away from Richard finding out, or an overdose and never returning again. 

"I can't refuse it when he offers." 

"Would he hurt you if you did?" Freddie asks in a cautious tone. 

He fights the urge to steady Rogers trembling shoulder. It isn't fear that has his entire body spasming, but the muscle aches for drugs. 

"Not at first," Roger says, his heavy eyes land on the abandoned board game. A predominant number of the tiles are his. He was winning. "If I am not already too passed out to voice my opinion in the first place, He keeps prompting. Prodding. Urging, until it doesn't feel like a choice to say no." 

"What does he do?" 

Roger doesn't seem keen on answering. His nose wrinkles and his lips press into a thin line. Freddie gives him a smile, he turns his palm over to offer it to him. 

"You can tell me, Rog." 

Blue eyes fall to the open palm, then back to Freddie's face. His resistance is short lived and Freddie finds his fingers interwoven with much colder ones. 

Rogers hand is clammy with sweat. Freddie doesn't let Roger know it's uncomfortable. 

"Right, so. He'll just ask, casually at first. _'Would you like some?'_ 'No thank you.' I say. I try to turn away and make myself sparse in the hopes he'll forget." He begins— then pauses to blow his nose into the tissue, which draws blood from the nostrils. 

Freddie pretends not to notice. 

"Bless you." He smiles tightly. Rogers eyes twinkle when Freddie brushes his thumb over the back of his hand. 

"Sometimes he does forget and I'm lucky. No drugs, I can continue my sobriety and I don't relapse. But there are times he notices, he usually doesn't have to persuade us to use drugs. He normally has to swat us away like flies because there is never enough, y'know? When I don't really react to his first advances he begins to insist, affectionately so. He kisses my cheek and strokes my shoulder. _'How about some dope to get in the mood'_."

Freddie swallows thickly. 

His stomach churns and he almost regrets asking what Richard does to Roger in such detail, if it means for Roger to live with the burdens of his traumas alone. 

Rogers eyes are hard. They bore directly into Freddie's soul, unblinking. Eyes that have seen too much and at the same time so little of the real world. 

"Then I am on thin ice, because if I refuse now? I refuse not only the drugs he offers, but also sex. I can't say no at this point. If I do, he will start asking questions I can't answer in a way that won't get me severely punished. _'Why not? Did you find a better dealer? My stuff isn't good enough for you? Wait until I let you go cold turkey. I will give you to my vilest dirtiest friend and make him ruin you, see if you still feel too good for my drugs. You will be begging at my feet.'_ He gets in my face and forces me against a wall or a bed or anything to crowd me. If I refuse beyond that, which is rare, he restores to brute force. I know that. So it doesn't make sense for me to keep pushing to the last stage just to get beaten up." 

"He manipulates you." 

Roger shrugs. "He's given me everything I have. The clothes on my back and the roof over my head. He took me back after I disappeared on him for a week— nobody just does that. He is taking care of me in the way that he knows best." 

Yes, Roger is incredibly intelligent, but Freddie is flabbergasted by how convinced he sounds of the spoon fed words that Richard had implanted in him.

Freddie shakes his head and repeats himself slightly slower to emphasize each word.

"He _manipulates_ you." 

Rogers chest begins to heave with the burden of having to explain, he also retorts to shaking his head, he withdraws his hand from Freddie's with a sad excuse of a smile. "Can't have everything Fred." 

"Think about it," Freddie can physically feel the frustration boiling in his stomach up to his throat. He struggles not to let it out on Roger.

He closes his eyes on a deep breath. 

He lets the oxygen roll into his lungs and holds it there for three seconds, before pushing the air out again in five long seconds. He repeats the cycle until he feels his heartbeat slow down and the red around the edges of his vision disappears. Roger isn't the one he is upset with. It is Richards words in his mouth that put him on edge. 

The whole time he feels Rogers eyes burning through him.

When he reopens his eyes he finds Roger looking extremely guilty. Freddie grimaces, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Roger says in a quiet tone. While he nervously nibbles on the already raw bitten skin around his thumb. 

Freddie sighs affectionately and scoots closer so that they are once more pressed together. He lays his hands on Rogers shoulders and feels the bones jutting out under his sweatshirt. 

Rogers chin tilts up to look at him. Freddie stares back intently. 

"He manipulates you and he uses the drugs and his emotional power over you to make you do whatever he wants. He uses you and he makes it seem like he is moving mountains for you while he barely provides the bare fucking minimum. You deserve better." 

Roger swallows thickly. He ducks his head in when Freddie had subconsciously raised his voice. 

Even though Roger is growing increasingly more uncomfortable by being loaded with the truth, Freddie knows that deep inside, Roger already knows. 

Roger is smart. He must see behind Richards facade. 

Freddie squeezes his shoulders and gives him a hard shake that has Roger rattling. 

"He is an abuser and he is such a good one that you don't even notice he is." 

Then he lets go. 

Roger lets out a shaky breath. 

Freddie swallows down the rest of his irritation and slinks back to his side of the coffee table to give Roger some space to find his bearings. His breathing is labored and sweat rolls down his temple while he steadies himself.

The pile of tiles is exactly where Freddie had left them. He reaches for the G, X and O. 

Roger presses the tissue back to his nose when fluids had started to flood out. He rests his chin on top of his knees while he watches Freddie arranging his tiles from under his eyelashes. 

Freddie lays down ' _Gox_ ' and reaches across the table to brush his thumb over Rogers knuckles. 

"Think about it."

"Okay." Roger blinks with a small smile. "Thank you,"

"Everything for you, Rog." Freddie grins back.

"—But I don't think Gox is a word." 

Freddie is already reaching for the official Scrabble dictionary on the corner of the table before Roger has finished his sentence. 

"We shall see about that!" Freddie exclaims, while Roger gleefully giggles. 

That was the last time Roger showed up to Freddie's office.

★☆★  
_  
Freddie's words echo through Rogers mind and he finds himself unable to sleep._

_It is past 8 AM. Richard is in his room and getting ready for the day while Roger and the other prostitutes are resting after their night shifts._

_Roger lays flat on his back, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling._

_However long he has been occupied with the uneven patterns has begun to irritate his eyes. The mattress underneath him is uncomfortable and the fabric has grown itchy. He's spend most the time he should be sleeping scratching every patch of skin he can reach, leaving him covered in long red nail marks._

_The pain seeps through his skin into his bones. His bed provides only discomfort for the aches of his job._

_Roger hasn't had a shut eye at all._

_Fatigue is a recipe for disaster. Every nerve ending in his body is hyper sensitive to his surroundings. He can feel the springs in the mattress dig into his spine, the wind howling against the blacked windows and his heart thumps against his sore ribcage, nearly drowning out the surrounding sounds._

_Roger wonders_ why _._

_When there is no reply and no sign that he will fall asleep soon, like he normally does when he lets his mind wander, the frustration boils further up to the surface. Almost without noticing his fingers scratch angrily at the scarred tissue on his arms, it hurts, it sends a satisfying burning sensation down to the rest him. It is a momentary distraction from the prickling of his bloodshot eyes, his nails scrape the hardened dried blood away until he draws new, fresh blood. Slowly trickling down the length of his palms._

_It is lost to him how long ago he had his last shot of heroin, but none of its euphoric calm remains._

_The pain does not help, but only frustrates him further. The blood seeps into his shirt and when he tries to bite his nails to keep himself quiet they taste like blood and dead skin._

_Roger still wonders why._

_His jaw is clenched and so are his fists when he climbs onto his feet. His poor sense of balance is something he has gotten used to. When his world tilts sideways, Roger simply puts his foot down more firmly. More angry._

_The floor creaks loudly when he stomps. The sound echoes through the rest of the apartment. Yet he makes no effort to quiet himself down._

_He stumbles into the hallway where he braces himself against the wall. Leaving a track of smeared blood._

_He is barely breathing with how much adrenaline is coursing through his veins. It is not unlike the surreal sensation of a drug rush. His feet carry him across the home before his brain can catch up. He is out of control and his mind is racing, wondering and screaming while its other half begs Roger for sleep._

__Why? Why? Why? _._

_His blood stained knuckles knock rapidly on the bedroom door._

_Richard halts in his room. Roger can hear the footsteps inside go quiet before they turn towards the door._

_The door is barely open and Roger sees red with anger._

_"Do you love me?"_

_"What?" Richard fully opens the door and looks down at Roger with a confused frown. It only now registers with Roger that he has never initiated conversation with Richard like this. It has always been Richard who decided when it was time to talk, when it was time for affection or punishment, when they could have sex or take drugs._

_Rogers nails dig into his palms with how hard he is clenching his wrists. Richards eyes dart down to his soiled arms._

_He can't breathe._

_"Why do you control me?"_

_"I control you, because I care about you." Richard says smoothly. Roger nearly believes him, yet the evidence stacks up against it. His bawled up firsts come up to his head and he slams against his own forehead until his arms are shaking and Richards forehead wrinkles into a frown._

_Roger realizes he must be looking mental._

_"If you care about me, why am I sleeping on the floor?!" He is yelling and bound to wake up to others._

_Richard scowls— as if he is dealing with a child with a temper tantrum and drags Roger into his room by his arm._

_He closes the door and pushes Roger against it. The back of his head smacks against the wood. Something cracks, likely his skull, but he doesn't get to recover from the dizzying impact before Richard has him grounded against the door hard._

_His strong veined arms pin Roger still._

_"Where would you be without me? Lying in a ditch. Dead and raped because you were desperate to take no-good drugs. You should fucking thank me." He speaks in a low threatening voice. Spit splutters from his lips with how vile he is sounding. "Every fucking day I take care of you. You can't be left to your own devices, it has been proven so over and over again."_

_Roger swallows thickly. There is nowhere to go and some of the fight leaves his body. "You let them rape me. You just let them."_

_"I did what?" Richard grinds his teeth._

_Roger blinks away tears. "You-"_

_"I gave you a roof over your head, food in your stomach and drugs for your stupid fucking rotten brain. I never heard you say no to that. You know what happens when you are left to your own devices? You are out on the streets for a week, nearly dead, high on drugs from some idiot you don't even know. Coming back here on your hands and knees begging for me to take you back. And now I am the bad guy for trying control you? You ungrateful piece of shit. Really?"_

_He is pushed harder into the door. Rogers body is shaken completely with over-boiling anger. He cannot break free from Richard, but he can resist. He does resist._

_"Why do you make me have sex with these men when I'm your boyfriend?" He pushes at Richards chest. Leaving bloody fingerprints on his shirt. "Huh? Why?!"_

_"You know that nothing can become between business. Don't be fucking stupid."_

_"Why did you convince me to work for you if I'm your boyfriend? Why do I have to pay to live here if you love me? Do you even? Do you love me?" His voice dies in his throat and Roger blinks away a fresh flood of tears. If there was ever an an ounce of love in Richards eyes, he has lost it now._

_"You are doubting my love right now?" Richard has a low voice that rumbles through his chest._

_Roger cowers despite himself. His face heats up._

_"After I've taken care of you ever since your mother died? I let you cry on my shoulder, I spoon fed you. I let you sleep in my bed. You are doubting me? After you have betrayed me by disappearing for a week. As if I don't know you weren't trying to see if you could make it on your own, you realized just how much I did for you. You betrayed me, you ungrateful selfish whore." He pushes Roger against the door again to hear his skull crack again. "Fucking slut." And again. "I can't believe you, you fucking left me."_

_"You already punished me for that." Rogers tears are freely streaming down his face._

_"You still haven't told my why. Why did you leave?" Richard asks. "Why?"_

_"Why do you treat me like this?"_

_"Why. Did. You. Leave?" Richard growls. His grip on Rogers arms hard as iron and it will bruise. His jaw is clenched and a thick veins pops on his forehead._

_"Richard. Please stop."_

_He realizes this had been a mistake._

_Roger slumps against the door when the energy seeps out of him. The only thing that stops his legs from giving out on him is Richard keeping him pinned down._

_"You have to tell me. You come waltzing in here demanding answers, I gave them tonyou. Now I want to hear your secret."_

_His breath ghosts over Rogers face. He hasn't yet brushed his teeth._

_"Tell me who has been putting these ideas in your head. Who has been feeding you the foolish idea you can make it on your own? You can't. You have shown to me and proven that you're an incapable child who needs someone to guide you, if not me, it is him. He determines what you think and what you do. You're so fucking gullible. You're like a street dog, every idiot who scratches behind your ear is your next savior. You listen to him, blindly believing whatever he has to say. You think that's any good? Any better than me? I've been keeping you alive since you were a teenager. Under their authority you ended up on the street, if you continue down this road it will happen again. Next time you do what they say and leave me, you won't be as lucky when you realize you need me again. You're on thin ice Roger. You let others play with your life while they don't know a single thing about you. If you keep letting them influence you, you will end up dead."_

_Richard lets go of his arms and steps away._

_Roger gasps when his legs finally give in and he slide down the door until he is crouching on the floor._

_"Think about that." Richard spits._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you liked it. Next week is going to be interesting!


	8. Of Duty and Responsibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality catches up on Freddie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! No extra triggers tonight but an extra long chapter. Bless you all.

Freddie has never been fond of personal meetings. 

His dress shirt is buttoned all the way up to his neck. His Adams apple rubs against it uncomfortably every time he swallows. Around the tables all of his colleagues are equally freshly trimmed and primed for their boss. 

Eric Hendrickson is a tall man with a ginger beard but no hair on top of his gleaming head. 

He owns five private therapy clinics across the United Kingdom. Two of which are based in London. Eric is old money, wears a waistcoat every day, he likes precision and his coffee black.

His evaluations are unpopular amongst staff. 

"Thank you everyone for meeting here at the end of the day, I know you all want to go home, but these things need to be done." Eric passes around a package of plain biscuits that are dry on their own. Nobody dares to refuse them or leave the room for a cup of tea.

The tension hangs into the room like a thick fog.

Next to Freddie his colleague Josh has bitten a dent into his pencil. Under the table several feet are tapping rapidly on the wooden floor.

"I have been struggling to get a good overview of what is going on in this branch, which I do not like." Erics eyes linger on all eight pairs of theirs individually around the table. Freddie sinks further into his seat when it is his turn to be stared down. "There needs to be more transparency on what we are doing." 

It wouldn't be the first time he's fired someone over one of these meetings. He has a nose for sketchy business. 

Freddie is sweating. 

Eric reveals on the cart behind him a stack of files. 

He places all of them onto the glass table in their makeshift conference room, normally the break room. He disappears behind the tall pile of files. "These are all our new patients, we will go over them and assess their cases." 

It is Monday afternoon, 5:13 PM and everyone around the table stifles a groan.

Freddie's grows increasingly more alarmed. His shirt smothers him and his throat is dry with biscuit crumbs. 

"See," Eric drags the first file off the stack and folds it open. "Case number 53271." 

Next to the files he folds open his own folder with documents. At the top he finds the register, the sight of it makes Freddie's blood run cold. Roger won't be on it. 

"That's Jermeys patient, Lara." 

Jermey sits on the other end of the table. He stretches his neck out to acknowledge their boss. "Yes, uh, PTSD and night terror problems. We have currently prescribed her sleeping pills and she writes in a journal about her nightmares so we discuss during our session."

"Hm." Eric grunts.

Freddie can see Jeremy squirming under the lack of approval. 

"But, uhm yes. She has been improving. Sleeping a lot better and feeling less helpless."

"So it says." Eric skims absently through the pages of her file. His eyes drag over the paper lazily, before he brings them back up. "Anyone got any suggestions for Jeremy?" 

"I don't know whether this is relevant for your patient, but while I was helping mr Jameson last summer, his nightmares were more vivid after he had watched television. Or listened to soap series on the radio."

Juliette is the only woman working in the office as a therapist. Eric seems impressed by her input. "Do you have anything to note that down, Jeremy?" 

Jeremy scrambles for a pen in his pocket. There is no available paper so he scribbles on his hand. 

"Good." Eric places the file on the side to start a new pile. "Next."

Freddie holds his breath every time a new folder is opened and Erics eyes trail down the page with registered case numbers. 

The sweat beats down Freddie's temple and he rubs his palms on his slacks. Everyone is nervous, but he knows his behavior is becoming rather suspicious. He needs to collect himself and builds up the courage to ask for a bathroom break nobody has yet dared to ask.

"Case numb—" Erics eyebrows shoot up to what once was his hairline. His brow creases and he squints at the page. "There is no case number listed."

"Who is it?" Someone from the right side asks. 

"Roger Taylor. He is one of Freddie's."

The blood drains from Freddie's face. Erics and everyone else's eyes fall on him. "Why is your patient unregistered with me?" 

His heart is thumping rapidly against his ribcage. Freddie's fingertips are numb where they clamp around his knees. He has no idea what he could say to explain the situation in a manner that will not get him fired. 

"I— uh..."

The time it is taking him formulate a reply ks giving Eric the opportunity to read through Rogers makeshift file with an ever deepening frown. 

The color drains from Freddie's face. 

"Drug addiction is Gordons expertise. Why did you not hand his case over to him? Most importantly, _why_ does he not exist in my system?" 

Everything goes south very fast after that.

"That must have been a mistake." Freddie swallows when Eric holds the file up for everyone to see. "I don't know who that person is." 

It's a stupid lie and it is debunked only two seconds later.

"Wait— I've seen him around." Robert comments. Juliette also squints at the picture from across the table before she can place the face.

"Yes, I've seem him around. In fact, he has what? _Three_ appointments with you every week, Freddie. What kind of patient needs three therapy sessions? I don't understand."

Dread overfalls Freddie and be deeply regrets making the file all together with the included ID picture he himself had taken of Roger. 

"I.., uh.. I don't..."

Lying to his boss will get him a warning, yes, but fraud can result into a prison sentence. 

Eric slowly lets the file fall closed on the table. He doesn't put it back on either of the stacks, he sets Rogers false file apart. His eyes stay on Freddie's while he folds his arms over his chest. 

Freddie's trembling and cold sweat breaks out on his forehead. His colleagues subtly lean away from him. 

"Freddie, come to my office in Norwhich on Thursday at 8 AM." In front of the entire staff Eric lifts his finger in Freddie's face. 

"Don't be late if you still want to have a job by noon." 

★☆★

"You're quiet. Everything okay?"

Brian is barely audible from where he lays flat on his back on the couch. Freddie found him like that when he came into the home, fast asleep with a heat pillow on his belly and a cloth over his eyes. _Sick._

When he had come home straight after work Freddie had felt slightly relieved to find the house completely quiet. 

John is still working and Brian is mostly knocked out by his pain medication. 

"I'm okay, Darling." He has been numb ever since leaving the meeting. He is experiencing a surreal out of body experience right now. 

It doesn't feel like it is him who is caressing his fingers through Brians bush of curls. Or watching the blurred black and white spots resembling humans on the television. His voice doesn't sound like his own either and his lips move on autopilot. 

"How are you feeling?"

"Foggy." Brian sighs behind the cloth, Freddie lays his palm over it to give just a little more pressure. It earns him a low appreciative moan. "S' nice."

"I know." 

Freddie isn't sure if he still has a job and he has no clue how to fix his life. John will certainly yell at him when he finds out, he had warned Freddie not to make false papers or invite Roger at the office at all. Now their biggest fear comes true. They won't be able to make ends meet without their second source of income— if Freddie doesn't go to jail in the first place. 

"Brian?"

"Hmm?" The other man slurs. Even though it is not a good idea, Freddie can't hell himself. 

"What's the law against fraud?"

"Fraud?"

"Yeah." Freddie coughs. Brian hums again, Freddie is half convinced he is already in a drug induced sleep. 

Yet Brian manages to drag the cloth away from his eyes to blearily stare up at Freddie upside down with a crease between his brows. "Uh... Maximum punishment for committing false accounting, maybe seven years."

_Oh._

"Why?" Brian slurs.

Freddie carefully guides him back down to rest against the pillows and moves the cloth over his eyes again. To block out all the lights in the room that cause Brians head to pound. "Nothing, Bri. There's nothing. Focus on getting better."

In his current state Brian is helpless, but not any less stubborn. 

Just as Brian is about to voice a weak protest and reach out to remove the cloth again— the phone rings on the wall next to the television set.

They both sigh, initially believing that it is John who's calling in to let them know he will be working overtime again, because another client has called up just before his time off. 

Nothing new.

Freddie's shoes drag over the carpet. He only now notices that in all the hours he has been home he hasn't removed his shoes or coat.

He shuffles to the phone and takes it off the wall with a click. He cradles it between his shoulder and ear. 

The line connects after two and a half seconds. 

Instead of hearing the expected tired drag of Johns voice, it is a woman who answers.

"Good evening, is this Freddie Mercury?" 

Freddie rubs his eyes in an effort to see past the bleariness that has been clouding his vision. It doesn't help much. He uses the support of the wall to stay upright. "Yeah, hello?"

There's a deep sigh on the other end. Followed by the woman clearing her throat.

"I'm afraid Roger Taylor didn't attend the support group session tonight." 

_Fuck._

★☆★

Over the 24 years Freddie has been alive he has gradually built up a life he found worth living.

He has figured out his sexuality, finished university, found a job within his field, moved in with two loving boyfriends in a large house and he feels joy to wake up and live tomorrow. 

It hadn't been an easy journey, but Freddie is happy to have fought for what he loves.

When this foundation begins to crumble down around him, Freddie loses sanity. He feels himself transforming back into the little boy, who was living far away from his home at the all boys boarding school, missing his mothers hugs and the books his father used to read to him. He is transformed back into the boy who was relentlessly bullied and alone, holding onto the last thin thread of hope he still had. 

It is the third time he has rearranged the coffee table. 

He keeps debating whether it is tasteful to leave the fine woolen socks he has bought for Roger on to the table next to their large turkey sandwiches lunch, or to put them on the floor next to their feet. With the chance of forgetting about them all together. 

It's Tuesday, 2:16 PM. Roger should have been here sixteen minutes ago.

"It's fine. All fine."

Freddie is already on edge from being at work after the staff meeting on Monday. He knows he has some balls for meeting Roger back to the office today. But the awful truth is that he has no way of contacting Roger to let him know his file has been found by Eric. 

Freddie doesn't even know where Richards flat is exactly located. 

Waiting is torture. The lettuce on the sandwich is browning and the clock on the wall keeps moving forth. 

Freddie alters between pacing from wall to wall with his eye out on the doorknob, expecting it to twitch, turn and announce Rogers presence. Or he stands by the window to scan over the area outside and perhaps catch a glimpse of blond locks amongst the people passing the office. 

He anxiously taps his foot on the carpet. In twice the speed of the clocks mocking ticking. 

The quiet is disturbing the rhythm of his heartbeat. 

He hadn't slept at all last night with Brian deadly sick beside him and John snoring obscenely loud. Freddie was kept up with his mind racing. He might he losing his job, might be going to jail, Roger might be in danger. 

It pains him, but Freddie couldn't tell John. 

Brian couldn't even remember his questions regarding fraud. 

Two of his safe places have been taken from him. At home he is on edge. His work perhaps no longer his.

His colleagues had eyed with unease when he showed up today. He hadn't been told to stop taking patients until his talk with Eric. _The talk._ Freddie shudders at the thought and pushes away from the window with a heavy sigh. 

The clock on the wall reads 2:36. Roger has never been that late before. 

It takes a lot out of Freddie to keep his tears at bay. His pillow is the only witness of his crying last night, today Freddie is too drained to let himself give in once more to the temptation. 

If he breaks down now, he won't be able to pick himself up again. 

"Pull yourself together Fred. Could be a traffic jam. Could have overslept. Lost his bus ticket. Gotten a client." He carefully crouches down until he can safely land back onto his ass opposite the coffee table. The carpet is scratchy under his fingertips. Freddie keeps playing with a lose threads while his eyes follow the second hand of the clock. Slowly inching around the spiral every 60 seconds. 

"He's okay. He'll come in any moment now." 

Freddie decides. He drags his knees to his chest to rest his chin on them. He watches. He waits.

Nobody shows up. 

★☆★

It's Wednesday, the third day Roger has gone missing and one day before Freddie has to face his boss about the false file. 

Denise had given Freddie another phone call to let him know that Roger hadn't showed up to support group and that she is deeply concerned.

Freddie can't help but agree. 

He had been waiting anxiously all day for her call to confirm Rogers whereabouts, with no luck. Freddie's fingers are bitten raw and his foot is cramping from how much he is tapping. 

"What's going on?" John yawns.

Freddie has just gone off the phone with Denise. His body slumps against the wall and the phone dangles from its cord down the length of his body. He groans. 

John shuffles closer to him, clad in his pajama shirt and boxer shorts. 

He is taller and towers over Freddie with a careful smile. He sets the phone back into the holder. John presses Freddie against the wall, chest to chest. 

"Roger hasn't shown up to any of his appointments for the last three days." Freddie says quietly, he blinks away his tears rapidly. Johns face blurs away behind the curtain of his clumped eyelashes. "He is gone without a trace and I don't know what to do."

"Is that why you've been looking so poorly?"

When Freddie looks away, John lets out a long suffering sigh. He leans in and wraps his heavy arms around Freddie. 

Freddies head falls on Johns shoulder. 

He presses his eyes against him until stars sparkle his black vision. 

Johns hands move up his spine to cup Freddie's neck, cradling him close against his chest. 

After days of barely seeing each other, stuck between Freddie and Johns job, looking after Brian and worrying over Roger, they barely spent a moment together. It is 11:47 PM. John has just gotten off his shift and out of the shower, while Brian has gone into a restless sleep after napping all afternoon. Freddie is left pacing the house, dreading his appointment with Eric tomorrow morning. 

Wondering where Roger is. 

"You know you can talk to me, right? I won't—" John sighs and presses his lips to Freddie's temple. "I will always support you Fred. No matter what. No matter who." 

"Thank you." 

Freddie's lazily slings his arms around Johns waist to pull him more flush against him. Molding them together into one.

There is a lovely sense of protection from John that Freddie gets from nobody else. He nuzzles his nose against the side of Freddie's face. He softly sways them from side to side. 

He rests his cheek against Freddie. 

"I need you to know, Fred, you did everything he could. He knows where to find you and support, he made the decision not to show up anymore."

There is a truth to Johns words, but also a problem.

If Freddie believed Roger had decided he wanted to take on Richard by himself or find a new therapist, Freddie could move on. Perhaps even one day forget about him. 

But the cramped feeling in his underbelly fears that something much more sinister is going on.

"Fred," John nudges him again. Freddie brings himself to drag his face up from Johns shoulder. John presses his forehead against Freddie's, his breath ghosts over Freddie's lips. "Forget about him."

"I can't." Freddie whispers. 

He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head once, causing his hair to brush into Johns face. 

"I wish I could, but I can't. He isn't doing well. I just _know_." 

"How could you possibly know that, Fred. C'mon." John carefully tucks the strand of hair behind Freddie's ear. His fingers brush over the sensitive skin. 

The past few days Freddie has been walking around with an unease anxiety bubbling inside of him.

While some of it is because Brians health is deteriorating, John is walking around looking like a Zombie in overalls and Freddie is on the brink of losing his job—

It is mostly because he knows something is seriously wrong with Roger.

"I can tell. I can tell from the way my heart is beating and how my skin prickles when I think of him. He's in _danger_ and there's nothing I can do."

He drops his head back against Johns forehead with a frustrated groan. 

Johns hand travels down his spine and under the lose shirt Freddie likes to wear. He kneads his fingers into his lower back where his muscles have bunched up into stressed knots. He sighs again, this time more content and involuntarily melting against Johns body.

"You're right, there's nothing you can do." John murmurs, rolling his thumbs into the pulsing areas with some struggle. 

Blissed relief surges from his back to the rest of his body. He has been holding a lot of tension. Too much tension.

John cleverly rubs his remaining fingers in the rest of his skin, circling the painful spots away. 

"So, why don't you come to bed and have a good nights rest. Roger is somewhere you can't find out, you're dead on your feet and you have to work tomorrow." He is the youngest and yet Freddie finds himself comforted by his wise words. "Come on, Brian must be getting lonely up there."

Freddie's lip involuntarily quirks. Yet much to the disappointment showing on Johns face, he shakes his head.

"I don't think I can sleep now." He sighs.

He regretfully reaches out to wrap his hands around his wrists to stop him from continuing his massage. He kisses the delicate inner sides under his palm, before releasing him. "You might say I'm dead on my feet, but you look absolutely awful, dear. Don't wait up for me." 

John manages a wrinkly eyed smile from behind the bags. 

The sight of him is miserable. His skin is a sickly pale, his cheeks are hollowed and his bloodshot eyes are far sunken into his skull with exhaustion. 

"I love you Fred."

They simultaneously lean in for a brief kiss in the kips. Johns are dry, Freddie's are slightly wet. 

Its only a short kiss, soon Freddie pulls back to shove John in the direction of the stairs. 

"I love you too. Now _go_ , got a lot of sleep to catch up on."

"I love you," John says again while he staggers off, "But Fred, you need to learn how to listen to me."

With his last words hanging heavy in the kitchen between them, Freddie watches John disappear up the stairs slowly, back hunched, half dragging his feet behind him. 

Sooner or later he will find out that Freddie had fucked up. 

Sooner or later John will suffer the consequences of Freddie's actions. 

"Jesus Christ I'm an idiot." Freddie whispers behind his own hand when he is sure John has shut the bedroom door upstairs. He still feels Johns lips on his own. 

The wall isn't comfortable for his already aching body and Freddie pushes himself in the direction of the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. If he is not going to sleep, with his mind racing and his worry eating at him, he might as well make it easier for himself. 

★☆★

"Hey— sorry."

Brian apologizes when Freddie jolts up at the sudden intrusion.

He has been sitting by the kitchen table the entire evening, waiting for the phone to ring or a miracle, since he has downed four cups of coffee. His leg is jittering with unconfined energy, his eyes rapidly bounce around the room, between the clock, Goliath asleep in the fruitbowl and the door. 

There stands Brian, using the doorpost for support.

Freddie jumps to his feet to pull out a chair for Brian. However many pills Brian has consumed has left his slow and clumsy. Freddie offers an arm which Brian uses to lower himself into the chair with a quiet sigh. 

They exchange a brief kiss in the darkness. The only light in the room comes from the candle in the middle of the table and Freddie only managed to aim for Brians bottom lip. 

"Are you okay?" There is a frown in his voice.

Freddie slinks into the chair next to Brians. He puts his feet up so that he doesn't have to touch the cold floor. It is slightly embarrassing to admit, but Freddie shakes his head.

Brians eyes are foggy, but not enough for him to miss that.

He reaches out a hand for Freddie, who takes it. He wraps his fingers around Brians and lets their conjoined hands dangle between the chairs. 

"Roger has gone missing."

Brian blinks. "What?"

"I haven't heard from him for days. He missed all three of his appointments and not made any contact at all." Freddie worries his lip between his front teeth, a nervous habit he has adopted and left his lips bruised and bloody. "God, Brian. I have no idea what happened." 

The look on Brians face shifts from confused to mortified. Freddie desperately doesn't want to see it.

He can't afford getting told off by John for involving Brian on top of everything else. 

Freddie hides his face in his elbow like a child who hides under the blanket, believing the monsters couldn’t get them there. It is hard to breathe and his eyes burn from how little sleep he’s gotten. The whole time he can feel Brians heavy gaze on him.

Brian stays quiet. They only sound in the room is each others breathing and the way Goliath is purring from kneading the kiwis. 

Freddie swallows thickly. Waves of nausea and unease fall over him. 

"I'm just thinking about the worst that could happen. You have met him, you saw his thin and sickly he is. Someone so poorly fed and addicted can easily overdose, with him, the years he's taken them, the amount of relapses he has had. Nothing is as dangerous as a heroin addict who keeps falling in and out of the habit. He could be dead in a ditch somewhere for all I know." _He probably is_. 

Brian visible recoils too. In the dark Freddie catches him clenching his jaw and taking a shuddering breath. 

He tugs on their connected arms until Freddie is forced to look up in his sad, determined eyes.

He leans into Freddie’s space until their noses brush and his breath ghosts over Freddie’s bruised lips.

"I know you're not even supposed to think about this, because you're his fake-therapist and your relationship should be nonexistent," Brian pauses and lowers his voice, as if someone might hear and stop them. "But he showed me where he lived a while back." 

"I drive him too, he led me with into the neighborhood, but never the actual house—"

"I drove him to his front door, the day of his first relapse with you. I drove him there, right up to the front of his flat. I think I even saw Richard."

Freddie's eyebrows shoot into his fringe. "You never told me this."

"I was embarrassed, John told us not to." Brian admits quietly. 

Freddie pretends to think about it, but the worry is so intense he can’t keep the act up for longer than half a second. The possibility of going to Rogers home simply to make sure he is still alive, is and opportunity Freddie cannot decline.

He climbs to his feet with a puffed out chest. The coffee makes his blood pump through his veins in a rapid pace. 

"Grab your shoes." Freddie lends Brian a hand to get him on the move too. Brian eagerly climbs up, the spark in his eyes even visible in the complete darkness of the kitchen. "We gotta go before John notices we are gone." 

★☆★

"Is that the one?"

"Yes."

Freddie swallows thickly. 

The building looks gloomy and decayed in the foggy night. There are no stars, no moon. Not a single light is on in the flat, making it bland into the night. The windows of the flat are blacked out and despite the numerous bags of rubbish gathered around the place, it isn’t the worst on the block.

He has been in the area before. He has seen the people scattered on the pavement and shady figures dealing in the dark. 

Yet parked right before Richards flat, Freddie feels the knots in his stomach tighten. 

"Keep the engine running, I'll be in and out."

Brian peels his eyes away from the building to look at him. "I'm coming with you."

"You can barely stand darling, don't be silly." Freddie moves his hand from the gear shift to clutch Brians hand. His fingers are cold. "I just have to see if Roger is okay. That's all. I won't do anything dangerous."

Brians Adam's apple bops and his eyes shift to the ceiling. "Richard is in there."

"Maybe not."

"Are you just going to knock? It's—" Brian glances at his watch. "3 AM. Roger might be working."

Freddie leans in to peck Brians lips. The sudden kiss forces him to take a shuddering breath and close his eyes. Freddie cradles Brians cheeks between his hands. They are both shaking.

"It's going to be okay. Wait for me."

"If you don't come back in ten minutes I'm calling the police." Brian whispers against his lips.

"Fifteen."

" _Ten_." Brian says. When they pull away, Freddie gets s good look of the hesitation in Brians eyes. It only makes Freddie feel worse for putting him in this situation in the first place. 

Freddie opens the car door and steps out into a puddle of rain water.

It adds to the depressive cold of the night. He shivers in the wind that catches and he firmly closes the door behind himself, the lights turn off so Brian won't stand out in the eery unpleasant neighborhood.

The air is still thick from the rain that had poured all afternoon.

While he walks Freddie shoves his fists into his coat. Underneath he only wears his blue striped pajamas. 

There isn’t a soul walking on this side of the street. On the other side Freddie spots several homeless people curled up in sleeping bags, against trash bags. Freddie safely makes his way up the slippery stone steps. The painting on the front door is chipped and the wood underneath is rotting.

There is an eery air around the house. It isn't just the fog.

After a deep breath and a glance over his shoulder to see Brian leaning against the glass of the car to stare at him, Freddie puffs out his chest and rings the bell. 

The zooming sound echoes through the street. 

He tries to appear bigger than he is. He straightens his spine and lifts his chin.

In his mind Richard is a tall man, with sharp teeth, a split snakes tongue and red eyes. A monster rather than a man. Freddie can't envision anyone humane to treat Roger the way he does.

On the other side of the door there is the sound of key jiggling, knobs turning and metal grinding. 

Blood rushes through Freddie's body like a river to the ocean. 

He bawls his hands up in his pockets. More than prepared to fight his way inside. He used to be a boxer. He knows how to move, but lost practice over the years and would have to rely on muscle memory. 

The door is slowly opened. Freddie inhales sharply. 

"Hey."

A small man in a oversized denim jacket draped over his shoulders and a blue cloth over his left eye reveals himself before Freddie from behind the door. 

_Richard_ , Freddie thinks. 

He looks nothing like Freddie would have imagined from Rogers stories, his one eye is light and his small sausage fingers don’t seem to fit around Rogers throat. At least if the little half blind man doesn’t have a weapon, Freddie could easily overtake him. 

The yellow teethed smirk on his face sets Freddie on edge. 

"Blondie is a bit out of it tonight. If you had an appointment you gotta reschedule with Rich." 

Freddie's skin crawls at the words. He clenches his jaw and stands his ground. 

"Blondie- you mean Roger?" The other man nods. "I need to see him." 

He lets out a chocked chuckle that sends a shiver down Freddie's spine. The hallway behind the man is hardly lit. There is a staircase that leads to upper floors where Freddie guesses the prostitutes live. " _Believe me_ when I say he's in no state for business." 

"Richard and I had a deal." He is a terrible liar, yet he finds himself speaking in a low casual tone. He should have thought more about what would happen once he would actually arrive. "Is he in?" 

"No, off with Alan again. Always something with them." 

He sighs. As if it were a reoccurring theme Freddie would give a shit about. Then he turns his face up and opens the door wider. "You can go up and see Blondie for yourself. But I wouldn't start unzipping your pants already and don't say I didn't warn you." 

With that he turns around and silently invites Freddie into the house.

Freddie refrains from looking back at Brian and follows the other man silently. He doesn't bother with cleaning his shoes on the shabby welcome rug on the floor. He doesn't bother removing his coat either. 

They indeed go up the poorly lit spiral stairs. Freddie nearly slips twice before they make it to the top.

Whatever the mans name is had left the flat door unlocked when he came down to check who was at the front. He nudges it open for Freddie with his foot and gestures for Freddie to go in first.

Victory sits heavy on Freddie’s tongue as he steps over the doorstep into the flat. This has gone entirely too easy. 

It almost feels like a trap.

He has never had any connections to gangs before or drug-lords. He once knew someone at his University who always had weed snd LSD to offer, but his place was nothing like this.

He enters a hallway with two doors on either side. Presumably a bedroom and a bath. 

Further down the corridor leads to an open space. 

Freddie's heart thumps against his ribcage. The apartment is smoky. Dust flakes sprinkle in the air, the only light in the room is a yellow bulb in the hallway. It takes a while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. 

What he finds sets a thick lump in his throat. 

The walls are a washed out creme color. On his left he sees red smears of what is presumably dried blood. The wallpaper is rotting off and the cobwebs dangle down the low hanging ceiling. 

His pace doesn't falter until he makes it into the living room and accidentally steps on a used syringe, crushing it under the weight of his boot. 

"Careful there. Don't exactly have a cleaning lady coming around." 

The man with the cloth over his eye chuckles from somewhere behind him. Freddie is glad he cannot see his face. 

Its hard to keep his shoulders straight when he sees the ratty mattresses spread out on the floor living room floor. Roger had told him about the living situation before, but the sight exceeds whatever horrors Freddie could have imagined. Where one might expect a couch or a table, lay rows of cheap molding mattresses with a motionless stick figures splayed out on them.

His heart hammers in his throat. It is dark. His eyes scan over the dull grey room two— three times before he can spot Roger. 

"Jesus Christ." 

On a mattress in a corner on the far left of the room he spots two pink socks sticking out from the mattress. 

Freddie runs over and drops to his knees to Rogers side. His knees come in contact with the floor hard and his coat sticks to the grime on the dirty wood immediately, but Freddie cannot care about that now. 

Roger lays motionless on his back. Poorly dressed and without a blanket and pillow, fast asleep. 

Freddie tilts his chin sideways to examine his face, only to find his skin on fire. 

"Hey, hey Rog." Freddie gives his bare shoulder a shake. "Wake up."

Though his entire body is shaken from side to side, Roger doesn't stir. His eyes are gently closed and he is breathing shallowly through his dry, cracked lips. His hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, his tank top is also drenched in it. There are bandages made of toilet paper wrapped around his arms. All the way from his elbows down to his wrists. The blood is seeping through the poorly done bandaids. 

Alarm bells go off in his head. Freddie cradles Rogers neck under his head to lift him up slightly. "Come on. Wake up." 

There is rustling on the mattress next to him. Suddenly, Roger is pulled away from Freddie. 

A woman with greasy blond hair and a thin face curls her body around him. Her striking green eyes plead up at Freddie.

"Please," Her voice breaks. "Leave him alone. He can't do that right now."

"I-I'm not—"

At the sight of his tears the woman frowns. She lowers her eyes from Freddie's face to Rogers, then back to his again. Then recognition flashes across her face. Yet Freddie has never met her before. 

"You're him."

Despite not being certain that he _is_ , Freddie nods rapidly. He finds Rogers hand and presses it to his chest. 

"What happened to him? He's burning up." 

"I'm not sure." The blond woman cradles Roger closer against her chest. Freddie doesn't dare to take him from her even though he longs to. "I found him bleeding in the living room a few days ago. We patched his arms up in the bathroom together, while he was still conscious." She swallows thickly. "It seemed like minor scratches, some blood. But now he hasn't woken up in the days and he is rambling when he does. Then the other day he got a fever and Richard won't get him help. He says Roger will be fine but—"

Her talking has turned into a blubbering mess. Freddie wipes away his own spilled tears with his sleeve and he takes a shuddering breath. 

"I told you Blondie wasn't up for it." 

Freddie had all forgotten about the other man until now. He looms by the living room entrance, lighting a cigarette. Too far away to take in Freddie's tears or understand what their conversation is about. 

Roger has not looked this bad since Freddie has met him.

If Freddie had to guess he is most likely suffers from an infection. A lot of heroin addicts get them. 

"I tried, but he isn't getting better." 

Freddie lets his eyes fall back onto the girl. She sniffles quietly into Rogers hair, her eyes set with sorrow. 

He realizes he has no choice.

With a deep breath he steadies himself into a crouched position, before he manages to slide an arm under Rogers knees and one under his shoulders. He lifts him up bridal style, shocking both the girl and the on eyed-man. Rogers head lulls against his chest, but he otherwise doesn't move or stir. 

Freddie pushes past both the small spluttering the man and the girl grabbing onto his ankle, nearly making him trip in her desperation. 

"Wait!" She cries. "Where are you taking him?!"

"The hospital." Freddie says, cooly.

★☆★  
 _  
"Is he sleeping?"_

_"No." Winifred smiles, though her arms are tired and shake under the weight of her baby. Michael leans over the bed and watches her present their new born. "He's a curious guy."_

_Michael won't exactly fit on the bed with her. And the hospital staff wouldn't allow it._

_Yet she finds herself scooting closer to his side. Their baby in the crook of her arm._

_She wrestles him free from the white bundle of blankets. He snuffles and blinks. Lazily looking up at them from under his hooded eyelids._

_"He looks just like you." Michael breathes._

_Winifred smiles tiredly. She lets her neck fall back onto the pillows while they watch Roger examine them._

_He flexes his little fingers from under the blanket. Michael offers him his own finger in return, Roger wraps his entire hand around it. He sighs and opens his mouth to suckle on the tip of Michaels finger._

_"I think the little guy is confused." He grins._

_"At least he knows who to trust to provide."_

_Michael manages to pry his eyes away from their new special someone. He gives his wife a blinding smile that reaches his twinkling eyes. She must be looking shitty, only a couple of days after the 26 hour birth, yet he doesn't seem to care about the dull state she is in._

_With his unoccupied hand, he reaches out to caress her cheek._

_"I'm proud of you Winney."_

_"He's 50% yours, Mike." She smiles despite herself._

_"And 100% your work."_

_She feels heat spread from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Even after being together for so long he still manages to fluster her._

_When Michaels finger proofs not to give any milk, Roger becomes fussy._

_"A smart one." Michael grins. He withdraws his finger so Winifred can readjust the little one against her chest. "He'll do great things one day."_

_"He's two days old. Don't put so much pressure on him already."_

_Roger takes to breastfeeding easily. His hands curl into fists against Winifreds breast and his eyes droop while he suckles soundly. Though it is more than painful to feed him, Winifred can't complain._

_"He's a little genius, I can tell."_

_Michael likes to tease her. She gives him a nudge in the side with her elbow. "Of course he will be. In his own time."_

_Soft lips press to her temple. She can't help the smile from tugging on the corner of her lips. Michael leans over to also kiss Rogers smooth forehead. Roger barely recognizes the touch other than a brief gurgle._

_"In his own time."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you liked it! And leave a comment to let me know what you’re thinking, thank you all so much for sticking with me and being so supportive.


	9. Of Reluctance and Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger is admitted to the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Another week another update. I really hope you guys will enjoy it ❤️ Bless you all and thank you for reading along

"Where the fuck have you been?!" 

Despite the harshness of his words, a rush of relief washes over John when he picks the phone off the wall and Freddie's voice floods through the receiver.

"I'm sorry." 

Freddie _sounds_ like he's shrunken in on himself on the other line. John clutches the phone tighter until his knuckles go white. 

"Shut up!" He growls. "Tell me where you are? What's going on?"

There is a short silence. Then a deep breath. 

"We need your help."

"What is going on?" John leans his forehead against the wall. He grits his teeth. 

"We're in the hospital." 

John pushes himself away from the wall again. Eyes wide. "Is Brian okay? Is he being helped? Do they know what to do? _Why didn't you wake me up_?!"

He can't wait until wireless phones are invented and he could rush out the door with Freddie still on the line. He had already put on his coat, shoes and grabbed his car keys as soon as he woke up to an empty house. Fearing and predicting the worst.

"We didn't go to the hospital for Brian..." Freddie swallows. "We came to bring Roger." 

The lump that had been stuck at the back of his throat since he woke up without his arm around Brians middle dissolves. John throws his arm over his eyes and he groans, half in relief. 

"Fucking hell."

"We picked Roger up from his flat and he was in a very poor condition, so we brought him to the A&E. But while we were waiting Brian might have passed out?" Freddie's voice sheepishly goes up an octave higher by the end of the last sentence.

"Fredde." John breathes heavily. "I've been awake and waiting to hear from you since 5 am. It's almost 7:30!"

"About that... Uh, I need you to come here to White Chapel Hospital so I can go to my bosses office and not lose my job? Please?"

 _One thing at a time_. He mentally pushes everything that won't help bringing him to White Chapel as soon as possible away in a cluttered mental storage box full of unresolved childhood trauma and student loans. He takes a deep breath to force himself to stay rational. 

His face is hot with anger and his fingers tug on his hair close to his scalp. 

"You have so much explaining to do." He says, not giving Freddie time to reply before John puts the phone back into the stand on the wall and he rushes out the front door.

★☆★

The last time he went to the hospital he practically lived there. 

When they first admitted Brian after he got sick they had not expected it to be a three months long affair. Both he and Freddie made camp by his bedside, keeping him company and holding his hand while the nurses weren't looking.

For him, John would do it all over again. Despite, like most people, John despises hospitals. 

Hospitals are germ houses, despite the nauseating sterile smell that clings to the walls. Everyone in staff is always in a hurry or mourning and death roams the grey floored corridors.

Whilst the rooms are small, the halls are endless. 

Even though John has spent more time than he would want in hospitals, he could never navigate his way through one. After parking the car in the first available spot he could find, John sprints through the front door looking around rapidly for—

Freddie, the smaller man is waiting for him in the main hall by the entrance. John sees him pacing , playing with his fingers, adjusting his coat.

As soon as he spots John running through the doors, he lifts his chin and opens his arms in greeting.

It doesn't matter that people are watching. John sighs in relief when he can wrap his arms around his beloved. Freddie obviously hasn't slept at all, looking slightly ridiculous in his pajama bottoms and long trench coat. In his arms, Freddie is shaking violently and when they pulls back there are deeply dark shadows under his eyes. 

Even though John is extremely upset, the adrenaline rushes through his blood and his heart still thunders in his chest, John pulls Freddie in for another bone crushing hug. 

"Where is he?" He asks. 

"Room 46 floor 2, he is in a lot of pain and really needs someone by his side." Freddie clutches his hand when he pulls back, the desperation in his eyes makes Johns stomach churn. "I will be back as soon as I have all my appointments handled. I promise, and I'm sorry."

John nods, if they could kiss publicly, he would. 

From the way Freddie's eyes trail down to his lips John can tell he feels the same.

He squeezes Freddie's hand, before pushing him in the direction of the large glass doors behind him. 

"Go."

"I love you." Freddie whispers, though he mostly mouths.

John keeps his tears at bay so Freddie can't see them while he waves over his shoulder with a watery smile. 

"You too." He mouths back.

He doesn't wait for Freddie to walk out the doors. John completely forgoes talking to receptionist to avoid being send away for not blood related to Brian. He takes the elevator straight across the corridor. The walls are a pale white and poorly masked by framed paintings by unknown local artists who would donate their art for free. 

John presses the button 'up' five times. Accidentally hitting the button 'down' too. 

When he steps inside the elevator is empty. It first brings him down one floor, before it goes to the second floor. He tries not to pace and get the elevator stuck. He also refrains from looking at his own miserable reflection in the mirror behind him. Leaving him with the only option to stare aimlessly at his feet. Hoping Brian is no longer in so much pain while he is alone. 

The elevator stops on the second floor, John rushes out and nearly stumbles into a nurse.

Both of them are in a hurry and bustle off in separate directions after short muttered apologies. Her deodorant makes him nauseous. 

John walks up to room 46 which is on the left only a couple of doors over. A deadly silence haunts the tall grey hallway and the sterile smell curls into Johns nostrils. These are all single rooms and there aren't people sitting outside, taking walks or chatting. Besides a family or four on the far right who are all silently sobbing in the waiting chairs outside the door. 

John drags his eyes away from them to continue walking down the hall.

The door of room 46 is cracked open. It is dark inside. John peeks behind the corner to see if there are any nurses who could send him away, but all he sees is the back of a motionless figure laying in bed on his side. Besides that, the curtains are drawn and the room is sparsely decorated with a couple of chairs and an empty vase for flowers. 

John slips inside without having to further open the door. 

To keep himself from making a noise he holds his breath still in his lungs. The only sound in the room is that of heavy breathing from the bed and a steady heartbeat monitor, beeping echoes off the walls.

John hadn't ever seen a hospital room with the lights completely turned off. The only light that guides to the bed comes form the slit under the door. 

He stretches his arms out until his fingertips brush over the beds railing. He wraps his hand around it to pull himself closer and lay a hand on Brians boney shoulder. 

Except, it is not Brian he finds rolling onto his back with a groan, but a stranger laying in the bed.

For a moment he is afraid Freddie had given him the wrong room, John yanks his hand back to his chest as if burned. The person on the bed is a bandaged corpse, eyes closed and barely breathing. Johns eyes widen. And then it clicks.

"Fucking hell." 

It's Roger. 

★☆★

John rushes back down to the reception. His heart beats hard against his ribs and he is itching to see his Brian.

There is no line in front of the desk. He comes to a halt while gasping for breath, eyes bulging in his desperation. He tilts his chin up to acknowledge the woman at the same time she acknowledges him. 

"Good morning, how—"

"Where can I find Brian May?" John blurts out in a single breath. 

Without taking offense, the woman rolls her chair back to reach for one of the many files in her cabinet and starts to look under the letter M, her glasses nearly sliding off her nose. She skims the files in practice speed, her eyes rapidly crossing every page.

John swallows around his sandpaper dry throat. He licks his lips and drums his fingers on the desk while he watches her.

"He was admitted this morning, today. He passed out." He murmurs. Wondering if it helps. "He's had some stomach issues and a surgery recently." 

"Right." 

She hums without looking up from the files. 

John doesn't normally show his impatience in public. Something his mother used to say, _strangers are no responsible for your emotions, Honey. It is better to keep them to yourself_ , which she had uttered to him the first time he burst out crying in the class after his father had died. She had meant it well. 

Nervous energy is hard to contain. His entire body is stiff with the tension traveling from his shoulders all the way down his spine.

He hadn't even noticed he'd stopped blinking until the receptionist turns back to him in her chair and sends him a funny look, in her hand she holds the golden file. Actually brown and labeled Brian Harold May.

"That's him." John utters. 

He removes his hands from the desk when he takes a step back. His fingertips left sweaty imprints on the stone. 

She gives him a tight smile, before asking, "Are you family?" 

"Roommates."

Johns face falls before hers does. "I'm afraid I can't give you any further information, sir." 

Damned Freddie. John grinds his jaw against his upper row of teeth until he feels his temples ache. _Brian is somewhere in this hospital alone. Confused and likely hurting._ John doesn't know where and he isn't charming like Freddie or stubborn like Brian to get the receptionist to bend anyway. 

Defeated, John pushes himself away from the desk. Not acknowledging the sympathetic look in the woman's eyes before she puts Brians file back into the cabinets behind her.

John aimlessly stands in the middle of the entrance hall. 

People pass him by each side. Some spare him a frown, most just push past him. 

He doesn't have Freddie's offices phone number on him right now. He doesn't have access to Brians room. John already called in for a sick day when he found Freddie and Brian missing in the morning. He could wait in the car until he sees Freddie's car driving into the parking lot so they can find Brian together, but, for some reason, walking out the two glass doors make his stomach tighten. 

Freddie had said that Roger was in pain and needed someone by his side. 

John presses his palms into his closed eyes. 

_Fuck_.

After taking a deep breath, he consciously picks up his shoulders, which had slumped on their own accord. He's in massive trouble, that knowledge settles a headache on either sides of his head just above the temples.

His feet drag him back towards the elevator doors before he can work himself over his guilt and wait in his car anyway. 

Roger isn't someone he knows or has any obligations towards— _Freddie on the other hand._ John presses the elevator button up to the second floor again. He steps into the grey box, he find that he is once again alone and leans his head back against the metal wall. 

John closes his eyes. The burn of his eyelids sliding over his dry iris sends soothing tears trickling down the corners of his eyes. 

He brushes them away. 

He wants to believe Brian is doing okay, if Freddie has neglected to mention his whereabouts. Brian should be a priority over Roger. John likes to believe he still is. 

The elevator moves up quickly, the motion makes his churning stomach flip. He presses his thumbs a little harder into his eyes. 

His arrival is announced with a 'ding'. John slinks out of the elevator and walks down the empty hall to room 46. The previously sobbing family, gone. He nudges the door open with his foot. The room is still dark and besides Roger on the bed, still empty.

Behind the drawn curtains the sun has come up. John closes the door behind himself and drowns out almost all light.

With his heart hammering in his throat, John steps further into the room.

"Hey." He starts. Entirely too loud for the deafening quiet. 

There's some rustling on the bed, some shifting, some murmuring, but with his back against the door John can't make out any of it. 

John clears his throat. "It's uh, me. John. Are you awake?" 

He holds his breath for Roger to answer. John trails a hand up to splay over his chest and feel his heart beating rapidly against his palm. He keeps it there, hoping that it calms down somewhat.

His feet inch closer towards the bed. It is curiosity more than anything else that keeps him from rushing out the room again. 

The first time he saw Rogers face he hadn't gotten a good look. All he saw was that he wasn't Brian. 

His eyes adjust to the darkness after he blinks two, three times. The only lights in the room comes from under the slit of the curtains and the machines next to Rogers bedside. Showing green and blue charts John doesn't feel like deciphering. 

Roger is no longer laying on his side.

John halts by the head of the bed. His breath so harsh and rapid it makes Rogers hair sweep away from his forehead. 

Roger is— Roger. 

Freddie's description don't quite live up to the sickening sight before him. Roger is thin, cheeks hallow and bones everywhere jutting out of his stretched skin. The skin itself is a sickly pale color in the lack of warm light. He is bruised and bandaged, around his head, his arms and whatever else is hidden under the blanket John cannot see or dare to reveal.

It would have been different if he lay still and peaceful, but he isn't. While Roger isn't awake he also isn't fully asleep.

His eyes roll behind his lids. He is murmuring, ailing. His hands twitch restlessly on the bed and his muscles spasm uncontrollably. Why he is laying alone unsupervised baffles John. He is wheezing with every breath and his heartbeat is shallow. 

John has only seen people in such a state in movies and on pictures in history books. 

Rogers eyes keep rolling and flickering behind his closed eyelids. With every twitch of his limbs he lets out a grunted pain. John takes the image in. He observes the disturbed rise and fall of his chest. The furrow between his brown whenever the heartbeat machine picks up and the tension in his neck every time he swallows. 

John sinks into one of the chairs by the bedside before he realizes what he is doing. He couldn't tear his eyes away from him now, even if he wanted to. 

Every time he blinks he is afraid that he has seen Roger takes his last fragile breath.

★☆★

Roger wakes up with a startle and a gasp. 

"Freddie?" 

Johns eyes dart up from the bedding to Rogers scrunched up face. He tries to stay calm for the both of them, despite the nerves tightening his own chest. 

"Not here I'm afraid." It is the first time they speak yet Roger doesn't seem alarmed by a stranger sitting by his bedside whatsoever. 

His eyes are only slightly open. They peer sideways at Johns. 

"'T hurts." 

His voice is barely above a whisper. John is still in his chair and cautiously leans closer. 

"Hm?"

Without a warning Roger curls onto his side and convulses violently. 

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck." Cursing under his breath, John leaps to his feet and scrambles for the trashcan next to the bed to hold under Rogers head. Roger is bend over by his waist, arms shaking dangerously for having to hold his own weight. Yet nothing comes out of him while he gags into the trashcan and chokes on his own spit. 

Hot tears stream down Rogers eyes and John watches him crumble apart too fast for him to react adequately. Roger draws his knees to his chest and he weeps, loud and open like a child. His arms reach up to claw at his bandaged head. 

He wails in agony. "My head. My head. My head." 

Johns heart beats a mile per hour and his eyes might pop out of their sockets. He watches Roger while a wave of helplessness overwhelm his senses.

Roger doesn't stop shaking. John eyes the emergency button on the remote attached to the bed. 

Against his better judgement, he turns away from it to instead wrap his hands around the part of Rogers wrists that aren't covered in bandages. "Stop." He orders, before he tears his hands away from his head before he can do any further damage. 

It takes little to no strength to wrestle a sobbing Roger onto his bed. 

John presses his upper body against Rogers to keep him still. It is not a pretty sight, he squirms and kicks, snot and tears stain his face and he cries with pain. 

"Stop that." John struggles to speak while he struggles to keep them both still. "Roger, you need to stop that, or I'll have to call in the nurses and they'll throw me out. You'll be alone."

Roger hides half his face in his pillow— mainly to block out the sound of his own sobs. 

"Do you hear me?" John feels a little bad for giving him a shake, just once, to get through to his rattled brain. "Roger?"

"It hurts." He drawls.

_Fuck._

John eyes the IV attached to the rack next to the bed. The supposed sedatives aren't doing what they should. 

While he keeps Roger pinned down by putting some pressure on his side and keeping his wrists together in one hand, John takes a better look at the IV drip. 

The sack says morphine. 

Normally a heavy sedative should numb the pain, but presumably the dosage is too low for Rogers tolerance for opiates. 

Under him, Roger is still crying and trembling. "Ow," He hiccups. "Ow. Ow."

"Shh, it's okay."

John turns off every voice in his mind shouting _no_ , when he reaches out to adjust the morphine drip. He can't listen to his ear piercing cries for a second longer— soon someone will hear Roger and it might get him in trouble. 

The nurses wouldn't even know what to do with him without knowing about his drug problems.

John shrugs off the fact that he is feeding into Rogers addiction. After a tweak, the morphine drip quickens. John watches the droplets slide into the transparent tube down into Rogers vein in his wrist. 

He drags his eyes back down to Roger, who isn't looking back. John breathes heavily and loosens his grip on his tender wrists. 

"I hope that's okay. And that it won't kill you." He mutters, mostly to himself. 

Rogers eyes roll back into his head. He digs his fingers into Johns hands as he groans. "Nhhhhhhggh. Hurts."

"What did they do to you?" John asks. 

If he was meant to be playing nurse for Roger, he wishes Freddie would have told him what had happened to him. 

"S'mthing my head. My brains'xloding." 

"Your brain is exploding?" John translates in a low tone. Roger has gone back to whispering, his voice a quiet murmur in the darkness of the room. 

His blue mournful eyes shift up until they meet Johns.

Then he peers up at John, a far away look in his foggy gaze. He has a vacant stare, not quite looking John in the eye. His face is red with fever, sweat has gathered around his neck and the roots of his hair. 

"Roger?"

"Yeah." He tries to flex his fingers where John is pinning his wrists down. John gives him even more leeway now that he has exhausted himself too much to thrash about. "Hit my head."

John watches cautiously while Roger reaches out to splay his bandaged arm over his eyes. 

He takes a shallow breath, before he continues to sob behind his arm. His muscles have yet to stop spasming from the pain. John debates higher the morphine dosage a little more so the tremors can stop. 

"Don't want to be here."

"You and me both." John snorts. He had called in for a sick day at work— which he hasn't done since Brian stopped working. 

He doesn't want to think about paying their bills that month. 

Roger is still crying. John feels like an awkward shadow looming over Rogers bedside, utterly useless. 

In moments like these, he thinks about what Freddie would do. 

"Hey," He perks up. "Everyone always feels better after a glass of water." 

John scrambles towards the sink before Roger can utter a reply. He fills the small paper cup next to the tap with water, which might taste a little like lime, but he doesn't expect Roger to complain.

The cup is too full and it spills down the sides in Johns haste to get back next to Roger.

Roger watches him move from under his heavy lids. 

His stretched out hand is too shaky to hold the cup of water. John hands it to him, more water falls down the sides. "Shit." He curses.

Roger mumbles a weak apology. 

John wraps his own hand around Rogers hand to steady him and help him lift the cup to his dehydrated lips. 

"You're okay, it's fine." John mimics what he hopes sounds like Freddie's reassuring voice. "You can trust me." 

While he is gulping down the water— Roger side eyes him suspiciously.

John straightens his spine and tries a smile. 

"I'm John." He is usually reluctant about sharing his sexuality, but he doesn't think a heroin addicted prostitute will rat him out. He moves the cup from Rogers lips and puts it down on the tray next to the bed. "Freddie's boyfriend." 

The mentioning of Freddie's name sets Roger at ease.

His brow relaxes slightly and he blinks up at John. "Everything hurts." He drawls. 

The sight of him is miserable. 

John hums, he is leaning on the railing of the bed, watching Roger watch him in an odd endless cycle. His heartbeat is slowing down in his chest. He remembers reading somewhere that people's heartbeats sync up when in close proximity. 

Roger takes a deep breath. His face contorted with pain. 

John rememberers looking down at Brian the same way. Though, then he had Freddie by his side to fill the gaps John couldn't. John would sign the forms and hold Brians hands. Freddie charmed the nurses and knew how to calm Brians flares down. 

John picks his head up. Roger startles at the sudden movement. 

"Maybe this helps, here." He learned the trick from Freddie. "Close your eyes, yes, thank you." He wets a wash cloth under the sink and presses it gently against Rogers closed eyes. 

Roger is still sniffling, but his crying quiets down when the cold sensation seeps through his skin. 

"There, I bet thats nice."

"Yes." Roger croaks. 

"Good." 

Roger breathes shallowly through his cracked lips. John can't count the times he has rubbed balm over Brians lips while he was in the hospital. He knows he still has a little pot at the bottom of his coat. "Don't have a fright."

"Hm?" Rogers forehead wrinkles when John gently smears the vaseline over his bruised lips. 

"It should help the peeled skin heal a little better." 

"You're— thank you."

John brushes his thumb clean on his pants. He falls back into his chair with a huff. He hadn't realized how tired he was until he allowed himself a breather. The hospital worn wooden chair suddenly feels heavenly. Blood rushes up his legs again and the tension melts from his shoulders. "Don't mention it."

"I get why Freddie's dating you." 

Roger doesn't sound like he is quite conscious, yet John indulges him anyway. "Why's that?" 

"You're sweet." He mumbles. 

Thinking about all the crass names John has called Roger whenever his name was spoken in their house makes John blush. He sheepishly lays his hand back over the cloth and Rogers forehead. The skin is scorching hot, no wonder Roger is ailing rather than awake. 

"I'm not that sweet."

"Feels sweet."

"Well, thank Freddie for that later." John says, absentmindedly brushing away a tear trailing agonizingly slow down Rogers jutted out cheekbone. 

"He's coming?" Roger slurs, voice dying away. 

He is falling asleep and John smiles at the childlike innocence behind the question.

"Yes, of course. Of course."

Roger sighs. Under the blankets his chest deflates and he sinks further into the bedding.

John keeps his hand there until he has drifted off and even then he doesn't pull away. 

★☆★

"Knock knock."

Relief washes over John when Brian nudges the door open to walk into Rogers room.

He lets go of Rogers hand and climbs to his feet. He sighs and wraps his arms around Brians middle— now used to how much pressure he can apply without hurting him.

"Oh thank God." John breathes against Brians hospital dress clad chest.

Brian uses the IV rack to keep himself balanced, but wraps his free arm around John too. John should be offering him comfort, but for some reason Brian is more steady than he is.

"Are you okay?" John asks, voice muffled.

Brian rubs his hand between Johns shoulder blades and rests his chin on top of Johns head. 

"Yeah." 

John hadn't noticed he was shaking until Brian pulls back enough to steady a hand on his shoulder, face long with concern. 

"Hey, I'm okay. It's okay." 

John attempts to smile up at him, it doesn't work. A shuddering breath forces its way out of his lungs. Barbwire seems to be stuck at the back of his throat.

He hates crying in public. 

"I have been trying to find you, but they wouldn't tell me where you were. I woke up this morning and you were gone. Freddie was gone. No note, no nothing." He blinks up at the ceiling rapidly. "Fucking hell. You guys can't do this to me." 

Brian squeezes his shoulder in an attempt to get John to look at him, but if he would, he knew he's burst out in tears.

"You were doubled over in bed all day, Freddie might lose his job, Roger is— really attractive apparently and suddenly you were all gone. I'm always the last to know." John stomps his foot out of pure frustration. He digs his nails into his palms. "You're keeping things from me." 

John can't see Brians face, but hears him swallow thickly. 

"I know."

"That's not an apology." John breathes, though some of the tension melts away when Brian forces him into another hug. Against his chest John allows two single teardrops dissolve into the fabric of Brians dress. 

He sniffles, Brian kisses the crown of his head. 

"I'm _sorry_." 

He combs his long fingers through Johns uncombed hair. Which he hadn't combed in the rush of the morning. 

"Last night I found Freddie sulking in the kitchen and asked what's wrong, he told me about Roger being missing. I once drove Roger home—"

John tries to look up. "You did what—" But Brian forces his head down.

"So I knew where he lived. Freddie and I were just going to see if he was alive— which he was. Barely. We found him, drove him to the hospital and they brought Roger to his room. A lot was going on and I just collapsed in the hysteria. Freddie caught be before I hit the ground so no further injuries. I don't know, I got sedatives for the pain now."

John presses his mouth shut. He needs to have a firm word with Freddie, rather than Brian.

Before John can formulate a response, Brian is shuffling them to Rogers bedside, the wheels of his IV rack are squeaky. 

"How is he doing?" Brian whispers, pointing his chin in Rogers direction. 

"They've given him antibiotics for the infection. Apparently he had developed a blood cloth in his left arm, got a fever and some sort of head trauma. They had to pull out pieces of his scalp before they could damage internally." John clears his throat. "They aren't sure but most likely got a concussion, suffers from dehydration, notably underweight."

"Why don't you become a doctor?" Brian raises his eyebrows in surprise as John goes down the list.

A smile threatens to ghost on Johns lips. "I read it on his chart, next to the bed." 

"Ruined the magic."

Brian unwraps his arm from Johns shoulder to tuck Rogers blanket under his chin where it had started to slip down. The blanket is pulled from Rogers feet, revealing a pair of pink cat socks John instantly recognizes as the ones he had given Freddie on his birthday two years ago.

"Hm, he looks a bit better already." Brian murmurs. 

He sweeps a strand of hair away from Rogers forehead. Careful with the bandage. He smooths a hand over his cheek while he gives Rogers peaceful sleeping face a careful once over. 

John swallows thickly. Glad his morphine trick had calmed Roger down and saved Brian from the sight.

"He sure does." John says, tucking Rogers feet under the blanket with a tight smile.

★☆★  
 _  
"Does it hurt?"_

_Richard lays his hand over Rogers. Resting on his chest over the place where he can feel his heart beating._

_"Yeah." Roger croaks._

_Richard gives him a calculated once over. His eyes searching and calm._

_"Do you want it to go away?"_

_There is no hesitation. He had been crying in Richards room all afternoon, unable to sleep without dreaming about her or close his eyes without seeing her before him. She haunts him without a means of actual contact. Roger feels trapped and helpless in Richards bedroom, knees drawn to his chest against the headboard. Shirt soaked with tears. He would do anything to take away the loss of his beloved mother. Suddenly ripped away from him without a warning._

_Roger nods rapidly. "Yes."_

_He hadn't seen the tools before, but they must have been there the whole time as Richard splays them out on the bed between them._

_A shoe lace. A syringe. A little glass pot with clear liquid._

_"Give me your hand, it's okay. Trust me." He whispers._

_Roger presents him his hand. Richard takes it and stretches it out with the palm up. He wraps the shoelace around Rogers upper arm. Roger isn't scared, he's seen people in the apartment do it every day. He isn't afraid. He isn't excited. Richard sets a tight knot in the string._

_"It'll hurt for only just a second. Take a deep breath."_

_Roger sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. The shoelace around his bicep cuts off the blood circulation to the rest of his arm._

_Richard trails his fingertips down his veins. He prepares the syringe._

_He takes it out of the plastic package before testing the pump. When it works, he pumps up the contents of the transparent liquid in the tiny pot. Richard fills it up until the syringe is full._

_Roger watches. Yet he cannot see thin needle through the blur of his tears._

_Richard takes a hols of his hand again and outs it in the right position once more._

_His breath hitches when the needle penetrates and slides under his skin. Richard keeps him still by squeezing his wrist. "Another deep breath."_

_Roger does._

_Richard presses down the pump of the syringe. Cold liquid is rushes into Rogers bloodstream._

_The effect is almost instantaneous. Heat spreads from his fingertips all the way to his ears. The world around becomes fussy around the edges, before it completely blacks out. The knot in his stomach uncurls and euphoria transits to the rest of his senses._

_He can't help it, Roger lets out a soft moan._

_His head becomes too heavy for his neck. Before Roger falls backwards onto the bed, Richard cradles his neck and slowly lowers him onto the mattress. Where he splays Roger out._

_"Feels good." Roger breathes._

_He lets his eyes blink closed. The pain numbs away and he feels happy, his limbs are lead and his head is weightless— the world stops revolving and his mind is for once quiet, blissfully so._

_Richards fingertips are cold against his burning face. He caresses Rogers cheek while he floats off into space._

_"I know." He smiles, voice quiet. "Don't get too used to it. There is nothing like your first high, yet everyone falls in the trap of trying to recreate it. Again. And again. And again."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and please leave a comment 😘❤️


	10. Of Help and Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will happen with Roger after he leaves the hospital?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, so this is an extra long chapter for you guys. 10k! I hope you enjoy.

"Look at you— whoa!"

Roger beams up at Freddie. His fingernails dig into Freddie's arms for leverage. Despite the sting, Freddie smiles back. 

He takes a careful step backwards so that Roger has to shuffle closer again.

His knees are wobbly and his eyes squint under the lights on the ceiling. He struggles to stay upright and Freddie steadily has to take more and more of Rogers weight while they exercise. 

"That's a lot more than you could do yesterday." 

This time Freddie doesn't move when Roger reaches him. For which Roger is grateful. 

He drops his head on Freddie's chest and drapes his arms around his shoulders with a sigh. Freddie secures him by holding him close by his waist. There is only so much Rogers body can be pushed to do. 

"There, there. That's really good. How is the head?" He asks quietly.

Roger rests his forehead on Freddie's sternum. His breath ghosts between the gaps of Freddie's striped button-up. He'd come to visit Roger during his break, to keep track of his well being. Roger has been recovering steadily during his short stay. Some injuries will take time to fade, but his fever has gone down and the infection is gone. 

The main problem now is his head and his overall weak physique. 

"Bit dizzy, but I'm okay."

"Good, dear." Rogers brave face is as wobbly as his legs and Freddie can tell he is suppressing a grimace. He hums, pushes a strand of hair away from Rogers forehead, before dragging him back to the bed by his waist. "Let's settle you down before your head starts hurting really bad again."

Roger has to hold onto the railing to stay upright while Freddie pushes the bedding back. He gives Roger a hand to hell him over the tricky railing.

Lifting himself into bed is nearly impossible with his shaking arms and twig like legs. 

Freddie gives him a calculated push to roll over the side. 

"Fuck." Rogers head falls onto the pillow. He grimaces sideways into the cotton. 

Freddie doesn't comment on how rigid he has become. He quietly pulls the blankets back over Rogers body and tucks him in only after Roger curls his knees to his chest and his chin to his knees, until he is a sniffling ball.

"Oh Darling." Freddie sighs, once done. He lays a hand over Rogers ear to drown out the volume of his own voice. 

Roger sighs. Eyes fluttering open to stare at up Freddie.

He gives him a smile, small, but warm. 

His lips are no longer cracked and the bags under his eyes are gone. He is a sight to behold with his cleared eyes and the white dotted hospital gown against his pale skin. The transformation makes something warm bloom in Freddie's belly. 

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault." Roger croaks. He cannot sense at what volume he is speaking.

Freddie bends down so his ears are closer to Rogers lips. Roger blinks lazily, his fingers shift until they can wrap around Freddie's wrist to keep his hand over Rogers ear perfectly still. 

"That's nice."

Another smile tugs on both corners of Freddie's lips. "I'll keep them there, dear until I have to leave."

Even though Roger closes his eyes he still manages to scrunch his face up and pout.

"Don't wanna be alone."

"Brian and John should be getting here for dinner, they'll bring you something nice. I'll make sure of that. You can always sleep until they come and wake you up." Freddie smiles, before he leans in to plant a kiss onto Rogers wrinkled forehead. "Don't look so sour." 

"Don't think I like hospitals."

Freddie never minded them as much as others do. He hums, he hooks his foot around the leg of his chair to pull it closer to Rogers bedside. Without having to let go of Roger, Freddie settles down in the chair. Eyes at all times on the rise and fall of Rogers chest.

"I know. I understand." 

Freddie much more fears what will happen after the hospital.

He has been calling local shelters if they offer special places for people who've just come out of intensive care, but no luck yet. Most shelters don't take regulars, they are only open during the night hours. 

Or don't offer any special treatment of any nature.

Freddie much rather have Roger laying half awake half asleep in the hospital bed, than what Freddie has seen of Richards apartment. 

The dreadful conditions are branded in Freddie's consciousness. The stench that clung on the walls still haunts him and the endless tangle of bodies will be engraved on his memory forever. 

"You're still there?" Roger asks.

Freddie shakes himself out of his head and he forces out a chuckle. "Yes, yes. Sorry. My mind trailed off for a second."

Roger stays quiet. Freddie doesn't mind.

His free hand is about to reach out to trace the outline of Rogers nose. Simply because the curve interests him. Just as his finger hovers over the bridge, the door swings open and Rogers doctor comes walking into the room with a clipboard and a smile.

Freddie carefully lowers his hand to the pillow next to Rogers head. Rogers breath tickles his fingertips.

"Good afternoon fellas, hope all is well?" 

The doctor speaks in a low whisper. Roger likely can't hear him while Freddie has his ear covered with his palm. 

Freddie perks his chin up to address the older man. 

"Quite well. We has a little walk around the room like nurse Cynthia recommended. Roger had some nibbles of bread and two glasses of water. All is good here, I think."

The doctor hums, assumably pleased.

It had been a bit of a battle at first to get the staff to allow the three of them in Rogers room. Only when after three days not a family member had reported back to Roger, they stopped fuzzing about their presence. Roger lit up whenever he saw them. Smiling and trying to eat along, be wrapped up in conversation and laughter. 

They could hardly deny him that.

"Doc?"

The doctor had gone through Rogers chart next to the bed. They had taken him off morphine the day after he was admitted. The withdrawal had been short but brutal. The hospital stay was mostly drawn out because of that. The added symptoms prevented staff from fully comprehending whether he was good to leave or not. 

"Yes?" He tips his chin up at Freddie. 

"Is there an indication of when Roger can be discharged?" 

The older man hums in a thoughtful manner. His pen catches between his lips while he re-checks Rogers papers on his clipboard.

Freddie follows his eyes. They both land on Roger at the same time. Unsure if he asleep or not. 

"He's suffered some serious trauma and injuries. If he were to go home, he needed someone to look after him." The doctor says, voice low.

Freddie rubs his thumb over Rogers cheek insistingly until his eyes flutter open.

"Rog?"

"Yeah?" He murmurs.

Freddie brushes his thumb over the smooth curve of his cheekbones down to the corner of his lips. Roger in return, leans his face further into his touch. 

"Did you hear Dr Walker? He thinks you're almost good to go home." 

The smile is instantly wiped off Rogers face. Worry overtakes what should be relief.

Freddie pretends the doctor isn't still standing on the other side of Rogers bed. The doctor pretends to flip through his clipboard to feign privacy. "Don't worry," Freddie whispers. "We'll sort it out." 

His words don't wash the sorrow away from Rogers face. He continues to frown even after Dr Walker has left the room with a murmured goodbye.

When the coast is clear, Freddie turns to face him once more. Tone low and serious. 

"Rog, I've been calling homeless shelters, hostels, friends who owe me a favor, anyone who could help. I will do anything I can to give you a safe place. You can trust me. Have I not shown you?"

Though stiffly, Roger nods.

"See!" Freddie beams. "I will sort this out for you, you can trust me on that." 

He only gets the shadow of the smile he had hoped for when he leans in until his temple is also resting on the pillow next to Roger. As if they are laying in bed together side by side.

Freddie still has one hand cupped over Rogers exposed ear. The world is loud and sounds soft and sharp can rattle through Rogers damaged skull for hours.

With his free hand he tips Rogers chin up. His eyes are sad. 

"When have I ever let you down?" 

Roger swallows. Expression unreadable. "Never." 

"And if I can help it, I never will."

He leans in to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. Roger closes his eyes, savoring the feeling. When Freddie moves to pull away, Roger grips his hand to keep his face next to his. 

Freddie doesn't question it. He stays still and listens quietly to the sound of Rogers breathing. 

Now that they have exercised and the world has gone quiet. Roger falls asleep. 

Freddie doesn't leave the room until his lips have gone slack and his forehead has smoothened out. His lips twitch when Freddie trails his finger tips over the bridge of his nose down to the tip. Freddie smiles back, even though his heart sits heavy in his chest. 

Time is running out. He needs to find a place for Roger soon. 

★☆★

"Just got off the phone with Whitechapel Mission." John stalks back into the kitchen and he rips the pamphlet in two.

He sinks into his seat with a defeated slump of his shoulders. 

"They only take people between 4 PM until 7 AM in the morning, then they're kicked to the curb." 

Freddie sighs. 

He reaches for the notepad on the corner of the table. He crosses the name off the ever shrinking list.

Finding a shelter is harder than they had anticipated.

Roger will need constant care and rest after being released from the hospital. 

He won't get that in these places. 

"This is useless." John groans.

Freddie reaches across the table to lay a hand on Johns shoulder. Freddie rubs over the tense muscle with a gentle smile. "Hey, don't say that Dear. It's all gonna be fine."

John drops his forehead onto the table. Groaning again. 

"He is not gonna live here Fred." 

"If we can't find a place, John, we have to—"

"No." Their eyes meet. Johns deadly serious gaze bores directly into Freddie's soul. He is onto him, Freddie can tell by the way the corners of his lips turn down in disapproval. "Freddie, you can't be serious. We can barely pay the bill as it is. You almost lost your job over him."

" _Almost_." He says tightly.

"He can't live here." John wraps his hand around Freddie's wrist. His fingers are cold, but he doesn't push Freddie away. "I'm sorry, but he's enough trouble as it is."

"You've met him. He can't be left with that Richard, you saw what he did to you." 

"That's why I'm helping." John promises. "I care, I do." 

It isn't easy to keep himself from crumbling. Freddie feels tightness all around him and the oxygen seems to have been sucked out of the room. He is also afraid that they won't be able to pay their bills or find Roger a permanent place to rest. He fears it will all come down on them all, because of him. 

He hadn't noticed the tears welling in his eyes until John reaches over and brushws them away. 

Freddie's closes his eyes and lets his tears fall freely. 

"I'm sorry." John swiftly moves out of his seat to take place in the stool next to Freddie. He wraps his arms around his him and guides Freddie against his warm inviting chest. Where his tears won't be seen or matter. "I don't mean to be harsh."

The fabric of Johns work clothes are worn and drenched in old sweat that could never be completely washed out. 

It smells like him. Freddie rubs his nose against it.

"It's my fault, all of it."

Long fingers find its way into Freddie's hair. 

John carefully brushes his fingers through the strands of Freddie's hair. It feels good. He works through a knot and flicks away a hair that had come loose. He drags his fingernails over Freddie's scalp and Freddie curls his fingers into Johns shirt with a sniffle. 

"It's not your fault."

"Yes it is." He mumbles miserably. "I kidnapped Roger from his gangster boyfriend and brought him to the hospital without a plan. I am the idiot who promised him I'd fix it for him, not having any idea that the whole situation is incredibly unfixable. That's why it's my bloody fault." 

"Hey."

Pain shoots sharply from his scalp where the roots of his hairs are yanked backwards. "Ow!" 

John forces him to look him in the eye. His face has changed from its disapproving set it has been for days— since the day of the hospital. Instead, John gives him a soft smile that makes him look his actual age again. 

He lets go of Freddie's hair to smooth it back. 

"This is in your nature, this is why I love you." Freddie pushes his lips out for the expected kiss. John gives in, a chaste little peck that has Freddie's heart fluttering. 

"This." John says with his hands cupping Freddie's face. "Makes you Freddie and me John."

"What's Brian?" 

"Brian is something else all together. I don't even want to get into that." Johns eyes twinkle like starlight. For the first time since Roger had gone missing over a week ago, Freddie feels a knot in his stomach loosen. 

"Alright, maybe next time."

"Maybe." John yawns. 

He has just gotten off his shift. Freddie glances at the clock behind Johns outstretched arms. It is past dinnertime. None of them have had anything and he has an appointment to get to.

Freddie clasps Johns thighs, before he pushes his chair back to get to his feet. 

"You off?"

"Yeah." He mumbles, closing his notepad and pocketing his pen. "Are you coming with?" 

"Someone needs to stay with Brian." John says, as if Freddie has to be reminded.

Freddie refrains from telling him Brian is asleep and very capable of doing that alone, but Freddie keeps his mouth shut because he is still not off the hook for the hospital fiasco. He knows he is on thin ice with his youngest boyfriend. 

With a sigh, he leans in for another kiss, this time slower and longer. Freddie lets his lips linger, John chases after him when he tries to pull back.

"I'm okay, gotta see Roger." Freddie whispers.

Roger doesn't seem to like to be left alone. Freddie in return doesn't like to leave Roger unsupervised. 

John gives him a smile. "Tell him I'll be with him for breakfast tomorrow." 

It takes a lot of effort to keep the sappy smile from his face. Freddie barely manages.

"I will." He says. "I'm going now."

"Yes, go!" John shoos him off with a playful eye roll. 

Freddie gracefully makes his way to the front door, after drying his face, putting on his shoes and coat he pokes his head back into the kitchen just before he decides to leave. He finds John bend over the previously closed notepad again, pen between his lips and pondering over where they can find a place for Roger to stay. 

He leans against the frame and watches him for a moment. 

"I love you." 

John startles and drops the pen. "Oh fuck off!" 

Freddie skips out of the front door with a giggle on the tip of his tongue. Even though nothing seems to be exactly right, he has his stable homefront once more. 

★☆★

"Freddie?"

"Yes sorry Darling, I'm on my way, Tiffany peed on the carpet so I'm running a little late, but I should be there in—"

"No, Fred." On the other line John takes a shaky breath. "Roger is gone."

As soon as the words are carried over the crackling receiver, everything stops. 

The phone slips between his fingers and clatters against the wall. He can distantly hear John calling his name. 

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

Freddie's heart is racing. A tremor rides down his spine as he reaches for the phone again. 

"—Reddie?! Are you there?"

"Y-yes." Freddie trails his hand down his face and presses his palms into his eyes. "Are you sure that he is gone?"

"The nurses didn't see him leaving, but he is not in his room or bathroom or hallway. Nurses say he was still here between 10:30 and 11. That's all they said."

"I'm driving to the hospital, I'll pick you up and we'll start looking."

"Freddie... Where can we even begin—"

"Please go outside and start looking. He can't be far." Freddie begs. Without letting John finish, he ends the call and rushes our the door. A sinking feeling forms deep in his stomach. Every fiber of his body stands stiff with tension while he rushes for his car. He struggles to work the keys into the tiny locks. By the time it finally works, nervous sweat is gathering at the back of his neck. 

The car engine splutters before it starts. Freddie's fingers are shaking dangerously on the steering wheel. 

He doesn't hit traffic at this time of the day. Yet the pouring rain makes the drivers in front of him drive under the speed limit and slow him down tremendously. Freddie tries to maneuver himself between them. The whole time he imagines Roger walking outside on the pavement in his thin gown in the cold wet rain that is clattering against his window. Alone, uncoordinated and weak. 

"Fucking hell— Drive!" 

The honk of his car blears over the rain droplets. The driver in the car next to him flinches before she makes room for him to pass. Any other day, Freddie would have felt guilty for his actions. Today, he hits the gas paddle harder than he's ever before and he doesn't look back until he sees the grey concrete of the hospital.

Freddie spots John standing under the hood of the main entrance, with his arms around his middle to keep himself warm. He comes jogging over with a red face and a frown as soon as he Freddie's car comes to a stop.

"He is gone. Took nothing with him, not even his own clothes. I walked around the block, but he isn't around here anymore." John swings the door open and jumps inside. Speaking a mile per minute. "Do you think he's going..." 

Freddie reverses the car as soon as John is seated. Nodding stilly. 

"Yes."

" _Fuck_." John slams his hand on the dashboard. Freddie is too focused on watching the sidewalk next to the road to flinch. "After everything we have gone through— after everything you had to go through. He just goes back to him?" 

Freddie rememberers where Richard lives, but he isn't sure if Roger knows the walk back. 

He takes a left where he imagines Roger would. Logically speaking, if he doesn't know the way he would try to get back downtown and go from there. Freddie takes a leap of faith and drives the car south down the road. 

A woman with blond hair makes Freddie's breath catch in his throat. Yet her leather shoes and expensive coat tell that she is not Roger.

Freddie peels his eyes away from her and her drenched face. 

"He doesn't know better." He murmurs back to John, too late.

"You've shown him better, Fred. Fuck. How often are you going to have to safe him?" 

Freddie turns to John. He is at a loss of patience and words. His fingers grip the steering wheel hard. "As often as I have to!"

"Don't yell at me." John utters.

He sinks into his seat, he shifts his legs to rest against the door and he tips his chin to stare out the window. 

Freddie sighs. He feels an awful barbwire sensation at the back of his throat. He can't swallows around it without tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He blinks them away so he can continue to stare at the people walking on the pavement. A lot of schoolchildren in uniforms, women with umbrellas and rushing men in suits. None of them are Roger. 

John is looking too. Peering through the slits of his eyes. 

"Fuck."

"I know." Freddie murmurs. "Sorry." 

With a heavy sigh, John blindly reaches out to lay his hand over Freddie's thigh. "I know." 

It isn't absolutely safe to drive well-under the speed limit close to the sidewalk. The cars behind Freddie are begging him to speed up and his wheel more than once bumps against the curb. Nearly swerving them off the road. 

John is becoming increasingly more worried about Freddie's already infamous driving. 

"I'm looking, Fred. You focus on the road."

"It's pouring out. You might miss him."

"My eyesight is better than yours. Just focus on not killing us, or someone else."

Freddie huffs. He knows John is technically right, as per usual, yet he still tries to peak at the street from the corner of his eye. John squeezes his thigh as a warning. 

"I won't do anything John."

" _Freddie_ I mean it. If something happens to us who's going to take care of Brian?"

"That's your biggest concern if you die?" Freddie murmurs, while trying to navigate the invisible road through the curtain of rain. 

"Yes Freddie, maybe I— Freddie."

"I wasn't judging you, I'm just saying, I—"

"No!" In his burst of energy John slaps Freddie's thigh. Hard. "Stop the car. _Freddie stop the car._ Roger!"

Before Freddie spots Roger himself, he swerves the car half off the road, half on the street. 

He stops the car and steps out without turning the engine off. 

"Fucking hell!" He hears John shrieks distantly. "What the fuck?! What the _fuck_? Freddie what are you—"

Freddie slams the door shut before he can hear the rest of the sentence. As soon as he is outside, the rain begins to drench his coat and jeans. The cars rush by too close for his comfort. He presses himself against the door and shuffles off the road onto the safe sidewalk.

He wipes his eyes from the rain to clear his vision. It takes some vigorous blinking to get a clear view of the street.

Then— Freddie sees it. 

Before him staggers a thin figure in a white gown and soggy pink socks. Soaked to the bone, blond hair sticking to his neck. 

"Roger!"

Freddie nearly slips on the wet pavement in his effort to get to Roger. 

Once he reaches him, by miracle without falling, he wraps his hand around his wrist and yanks Roger backwards. Who gasps and falls into his arms.

"Where are you going?" 

Rogers face is deadly pale and wet with either rain or tears. His lips are purple from the cold. 

"Home." Roger whispers. Broken. 

He had improved so much after a few days of sleep and food. That progress seems to be lost once more, his fingertips are numb and his eyes are misty. 

Freddie wraps his arms around Rogers waist. Roger, despite being stiff and uncooperative doesn't attempt to pull away. 

"And where is that?" Freddie pushes a strand of wet hair away from Rogers face. "With that man who forces you into drugs and lets you be raped?" 

Roger blinks up at him, shaking his still bandaged head. 

"He doesn't force me to do anything. I'm an adult." He points at his chest. Which would have been more affective if he didn't look like someone who's just escaped from an asylum. "I am responsible for my own actions. I can't keep listening to everyone else, I need to stop pretending he made me do these things. I let him." 

Roger pushes away from Freddie's to continue walking down the road leading up to Richards downtown. Then, Richards flat.

Freddie yanks him back before he can take another step. 

He forces Roger to face him. Something snaps inside of Freddie, seeing Roger trembling and injured, sparsely clothed in the rain. 

"Your brain stopped properly developing after you started taking drugs, Roger. He knows this, he knew that drugs could be used to keep you under control. Don't let me get started on how flawed your last statement was. You're wrong if you think going back to him is your best option. You're wrong if you think you are to blame for the things he has put you through." 

John suddenly joins in too, Freddie had admittedly forgotten about his presence. 

He suddenly grabs Rogers shoulders and blocks the way from his other side too. 

"You deserve better." 

Conflict flashes over Rogers face. He turns between John and Freddie, movement sluggish and slow. Freddie guesses that sheer adrenaline is the only reason why he is still on his feet.

Freddie doesn't know what to say. Luckily, he doesn't have to.

"Crash at our place for a few days." John gushes out. "Just until we find a way for you to get by without Richard." 

The two of them make eye contact over Rogers shoulder. 

John gives him a small smile. Freddie feels warmth spread from his underbelly to his cheeks. He blinks at John slowly, a silent thank you. 

Roger violently shakes between them. His fingers curl into his gown. "That's impossible. Nobody will have me permanently if not with him. A-and I'm not going back to the homeless shelter. I can't do that again." 

His voice grows high pitched and desperate. Both he and John can barely hear him over the rain. 

"Just a few days. Please. Stay for a while until we got a plan." Freddie suggests. 

When Roger doesn't make a move, he wraps his arm around Rogers waist to pull him flush against his chest and take his weight. Even though they are not far from the hospital, perhaps a good ten minutes, Roger has walked further than he has done all week combined. The journey seems to have taken its toll on Roger already. Freddie fears he would never even make it to Richards place alive if he had tried. 

His clothes are soaked wet and it might freeze in a couple of hours, the cold would have killed him.

A long sigh makes Roger deflate against his chest. Roger looks like he is on the very brink of collapsing.

Freddie guesses might just give in out of sheer exhaustion.

"Why are you helping me?" 

"I'm your friend." Freddie says, looking at John over Rogers body. He gives him a wry smile when John tips his chin in the direction of the car, signaling they should go. They have it parked in a very illegal, not to mention dangerous manner in the middle of the road. 

John reaches out to open the backseat door of the car. He waits. The rain also making his fringe stick to his forehead. 

"I want you to be better." Freddie says to Roger. "Come with me, _please_."

Rogers lip trembles in the cold. 

The hesitation in his eyes is real. Freddie for a split second debates whether he should simply carry Roger back to the hospital against his will where he staff won't release him until he is out of danger. Winning Freddie some time. 

Luckily, after a shaky breath and another shudder, Roger agrees. 

As soon as he gives a stiff nod, Freddie sighs in relief and guides him towards the car. John is already waiting to help Roger into the backseat.

Roger, instead of sitting down, falls horizontally onto the leather seat miraculously without hitting his head. 

He uses his arm as his pillow. His clothes are absolutely soaked, Freddie peels off his socks from his numb toes while John covers Roger in a spare blanket they keep in the back. 

"Comfortable?" Freddie dares to ask, while John is on his hands and knees over Roger trying to tuck him in. 

"Think he's sleeping..."

John covers Rogers feet as well as his body under the too small duvet. Freddie helps him manipulate Rogers limbs to curl him up so he can be comfortably bundled up. His car isn't particularly large. Both he and John are relieved to close the door without amputating Rogers feet. 

By the time they are finished the two of them soaked to the bone. The rain has seeped through their coats and Freddie's nose is already starting to run.

The cars on the road have to drive around their parked car in a large bow, honking and hitting the brakes hard. 

They should leave. 

Before Freddie can begin to walk around the car back to the drivers seat, John tugs him back by his sleeve.

His quiet voice is barely audible over the rain. 

"We're really taking him home?" John asks, even though he was the one who offered it.

"Yes." 

John sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. His worry makes Freddie feel slightly less relieved.

"What if we get the maffia on our hands?"

"It's a gang," Freddie corrects. "And he has been missing for days. They still haven't found Roger yet. I think they've lost him." 

"Fuck." John tries to dry his face with his coat. 

Freddie pushes his arms away smooths his own hands over Johns face. Cold and wet. He cups his cheeks, not caring who sees it. 

"It will be okay. This is good— we won't regret it."

" _Gangs_ , Freddie. Prostitutes and gangs and drugs." 

"I know."

"Fucking hell." John whispers, before they break away to climb into the car. 

★☆★

"Hey sleepyhead. We're here."

Freddie feels slightly bad for nudging Roger out of his peaceful drowse. He blinks up at him, eyes bleary in confusion. 

He realizes the car has stopped and he rubs his eyes.

"Where are we?"

"My house, and Johns and Brians." Freddie explains gently, whilst pulling Roger into a sitting position. Rogers head lulls sideways against the cushioned backrest. 

"Oh."

"Yeah." Freddie smiles, before he drags Roger sideways to slide him out of the car. "Let's go inside before we all catch a bloody cold, Darling."

Roger wraps an arm around Freddie's shoulder while they climb out together.

"Me too?"

"Yeah." Freddie nudges the car door closed with his foot. John locks the car up with Freddie's keys, before racing to the front door to hold it open for the stumbling duo. Freddie practically drags Roger across the lawn to get him to move. His feet are bare on the cold wet stones leading up to the front of the porch.

Roger shivers. Freddie rubs his shoulder in a failed attempt to warm him up.

"Almost there, Dear. Are you okay?"

"Yes." Roger nods sluggishly, sounding more asleep than awake.

John wraps Rogers other arm around his shoulder so that they can carry him over the doorstep together. Rogers feet slip and his weight falls onto both Freddie and John.

"Sorry."

"Don't worry, we're here." Freddie strains to keep him upright when they finally close the door behind themselves and they fall into the house. The dripping of the rain is shut out with a click of the lock. 

Roger groans brokenly before his knees completely give out. 

He would have wobbled to the floor if it weren't for John and Freddie grasping for his hospital gown before he hits the carpet. 

John pulls him up by his sleeves, face tomato red with the strain. "He's heavier than he looks."

"Don't be mean." Freddie grunts. 

Together they carry Roger over to the kitchen. Freddie uses his free arm to push one of the chairs back to sit him down. John manipulates his arms while Freddie works on getting his legs to bend into a sitting position. It isn't easy and Roger almost immediately slides off again, if it weren't for Freddie crouching down to wrap his arms around his middle, positioning him back in place. 

"Jesus."

John wipes the sweat and rain off of his forehead. He leans against the back of Rogers chair with a frown.

Freddie blinks up at him and their guest. "We did it. Good team work guys." 

Before either of them gets the opportunity to catch their breath, a loud gasp from the kitchen entry alarms them.

"Roger?"

"Brian." Freddie half sighs, half smiles. He tips his chin up to see Brian standing stiff against the doorframe.

He looks like he had just woken up, even though it is late afternoon. His hair is a wild birds-nest and his pajamas have kinks in them. Brian shuffles further into the kitchen and comes to stand next to John, behind Roger.

He trails his hand over Rogers wet hair and bandage, then he glances sideways at John.

"You're okay with this?"

"It might surprise you that he was the one who invited Roger into the house." Freddie grins. 

Heat creeps up on Johns cheeks. His brow creases further. 

"He was walking outside in the rain, barefoot." 

Brians arm snakes around Johns waist to pull him flush against him. The taller man has to lean in to kiss Johns blushing cheek. "You did the right thing." He says.

Freddie peels his eyes away from his boyfriends to look at Roger.

His neck has lulled against the back of the chair. His mouth is slightly agape while the water in his hair drips on his already soaked hospital gown. 

Rogers entire body is trembling from the cold. 

"He needs some food." Brian had followed Freddie's gaze and is now also looking uneasy at their half conscious guest. 

Freddie shakes his head. 

He hasn't seen Roger hold down a meal in a while, especially not when he is as exhausted as he is right now. 

"He needs to rest." 

"Not before he has a bath." John interjects. "Don't wanna go to the hospital again because someone got pneumonia." 

The three of them stare at one another. First Freddie looks at John, then Brian. Then John is glaring at him again. None of them budge, so Freddie has to take the reigns for anything to get done. 

"Why don't we make Roger some tea, give him a couple of painkillers and then we put him in bath. Hm?" 

Brian nods curtly. He untangles himself from John to get the kettle going. 

John, in return, bends down to give Freddie a kiss. "I'll start running the bath. Will you be able to get him upstairs?" 

"Yeah." Freddie smiles, before pushing his chin up for another kiss. "I'll be quick."

"Good." 

With that John makes his way out of the room. Freddie can see him getting out of his ruined shoes and soaked coat before he climbs up the stairs.

That reminds Freddie of his own besotted attire.

He toes off his shoes without unlacing them and hangs his coat over one of the kitchen chairs. The fur won't ever be the same again. 

"Freddie."

Freddie turns to Roger, whose eyes are now open and less foggy than they were before.

He falls into the chair next to Roger, who's shivering so violently that Freddie fears he might shake himself onto the floor. To protect himself against the cold, Roger wraps his arms around himself and pulls his knees to his chest, then he rests his chin on his knees. His lips are an alarming shade of purple. Eyes hooded as he stares at Freddie through his clumped eyelashes.

"I'm cold."

"I can tell," Freddie says quietly. "John is filling the tub for you."

Rogers eyebrows shoot up. A ghost of a smile plays on his patsy white face. 

"I haven't had a bath in years." 

The sight of him makes Freddie shiver too. Without thinking, he reaches out to pull Rogers feet in his lap. When Roger doesn't jump or kick him off, Freddie takes a hold of one of his feet and wraps his hands around his sole. 

His feet are cold as ice. Freddie tries to cover as much skin as he can as he rubs the warmth of his palms back into Rogers toes. 

They wriggle under the attention. Rogers eyes are solely on Freddie. He can feel the burning gaze. 

"What happened to my socks?" He asks.

"They were soaked with mud and rain water. I'll wash them and give them back to you." Freddie says quietly. His own hands are turning cold now, yet he doesn't stop the massage.

"Hey."

Roger tips his chin up to look at Brian, who's hovering by the table with Rogers tea in his hands. He smiles, eyes gentle and warm. "Hi."

"I made you some tea," He carefully hands Roger the cup to make sure nothing spills over the sides and burn his hands. Roger looks pleasantly surprised by the gesture. "I hope it's okay." Brian swallows.

Rogers upside down smile is blinding. His fingers cup the porcelain in the most gentle manner. 

"Thank you." 

Brians need for approval is met. His eyes lit up and he flashes the two other men in the room his sharp teeth. 

Roger lower his chin to begin sipping from the edge of the cup while Freddie continues his ministrations on his feet. Brian takes a seat next to him. He hadn't bothered making tea for himself or asked Freddie and John if they wanted anything. He had been too focused on Rogers needs. The same way Freddie doesn't care that his jeans are soaked with rainwater and drying uncomfortably against his already numb legs. Or how his hair is sticking to his cheeks like an octopus's tentacles. 

"Is it good?" Brian asks.

Roger nods once, he pulls away from the cup to blow away some of the steam. "Nice 'n warm." 

"Good." Brian smiles tightly. "That's good."

Under the table, Freddie stretches his leg out to nudge Brians knee. Silently telling him to relax a little. If Roger noticed the shared looks between them, he doesn't mention it. In favor of sipping his tea while its still hot enough to burn his tongue.

In the meantime, Freddie switches feet. He lets go of Rogers left foot to grab his right one.

Roger, though not looking at Freddie, wedges his now free foot between Freddie's thighs to keep it warm. 

Freddie swallows thickly, and circles his finger over Rogers ankle in silent approval. 

"So uh, I'm staying here tonight?" 

"Until we have found somewhere safe for you to live, you can stay with us." Freddie says.

Brians fingers twitch on the table, as if he is longing to touch Roger. Freddie bites his lip to keep himself from smiling at his boyish nervousness. "I agree. We want you to be safe. Here is now the safest you could possibly be."

Something unrecognizable washes over Rogers face. An emotion that Freddie had never seen in his eyes before.

His shoulders relax and for a blissful moment, his hands stop shaking.

He looks Freddie straight in the eye. No prompting, no nervousness, no sheepishness or shield of any kind. Freddie's heart pumps a little faster.

"Thank you." Roger says. 

The words have never meant anything before, not compared to the quiet sincerity Roger expresses.

Freddie bows his neck slightly, eyes not once breaking away from Rogers. 

"You're nothing but welcome." Freddie smiles, before he taps Rogers foot. "I think your bath is waiting for you."

A yawn forces Rogers lips away from his cup. He smiles.

"I'm bloody freezing."

"Nobody said it was a good idea to walk outside in the rain without a coat on bare beet, y'know." Freddie teases. He takes Rogers cup and places it on the table for him. 

He climbs to his feet and offers Roger his hand. "Come on, crazy man." 

A smile tugs on Rogers lips. He takes Freddie's hand and allows himself to be pulled up in a standing position. The moment he is on his own feet, his legs sway and his hands shoot up to the side of his bandaged head with a grimace. 

Both Brian and Freddie jump in to help. 

Freddie guides Roger into resting his forehead against his shoulder, whilst Brian splays a hand over his lower back. "Hey, take it easy."

"My head's bursting." 

"John has some ibuprofen for you upstairs." Freddie says lowly, "After your bath I'll show you where you can sleep tonight. You'll get a good nights rest— you'll love it."

Roger doesn't move a muscle. His arms hang by his sides and his shoulders slump further.

"I could also, like, sleep on the table or somethin'." 

Freddie snorts and begins to drag a very uncooperative Roger in the general direction of the stairs. "Yeah, maybe not."

He waves Brian goodbye over Rogers shoulder. 

Brian is too star struck to react coherently, his shoulders jolt and he smiles back. 

Freddie grins into Rogers hair. Trying not to tease Brian. 

"How far is it?"

"Barely there." Freddie mumbles back at the blond. Before Roger can begin another series of protests, Freddie stands firmly on his heels and scoops Roger up in his arms bridal style.

Roger goes without as much as a gasp. 

He wraps his arms around Freddie's neck and rests his forehead on his shoulder, almost as if he expected the treatment. 

Like that, they make their way up the stairs. It isn't easy on Freddie's back or his arms, but it is much quicker than dragging Rogers body up the steps alone. The wood creaks under their combined weight, but the sound of the running water tap gives Freddie hope about getting closer.

By the time they have made their way to the upper floor, Roger had grown quiet once more.

Freddie glances down to see if he is asleep, which he is not. 

He has a sad distant look in his eyes that makes it hard for Freddie to breathe. For a moment he is afraid he will drop Roger, only at the last moment he reminds himself what he is doing.

He soldiers through the last few steps to the bathroom.

John has left the door slightly open. Freddie nudges it open wider with his foot, before he stalks into the hot room.

"Hi."

"Hey." John mimics his quiet voice without questioning it. His eyes meet Freddie and he reads him instantly. The air around him turns warm and protective like the bath water steam. He helps Freddie lower Roger onto the toilet seat with his head bowed forward and his feet dangling without reaching the floor. 

Roger covers his eyes to block out the light while Freddie crouches down. 

"Roger?" He asks.

A croak of an affirmative noise comes from Rogers throat. Freddie doesn't mind. 

He lays a hand over his rigid back, the tense muscles under his palm shift at the touch. "Do you want some help or rather go wash yourself alone right now?" 

Roger bows his head further until his forehead rests on his knees and he is bend in a C. 

Freddie keeps his hand where it is.

His entire body is shaking. The adrenaline has now truly left him and made place for something much more sinister to haunt the space between his skin and bones. Roger lets out a shallow breath. 

"I can't do it alone."

Freddie brushes a damp strand of hair away from Rogers neck, behind his ear. 

"That's okay, that's why I'm here." 

He begins to undo the bandages around Rogers head. They are outdated and soaked from the rain. He pries the knots out of the fabric until it unwinds. The imprint is still visible on Rogers hair after Freddie throws it into the bin.

John watches them from the opposite wall. His eyes are misty and his fingers dig into his own arms.

Freddie guides Roger to sit upright. Even though it makes him sway slightly. 

"Is it okay if I take off your gown? It's sodden." 

Roger nods once, with a sniffle. "Yes, thank you."

"Good!" 

Freddie reaches around Roger to pull on the individual straps keeping the knots in his gown closed. They are tight and well secured. It takes some tugging and prodding to get them to loosen until the thin stiffly fabric pools down to Rogers waist.

Roger is looking at him. 

"Can he leave?" He whispers, purposefully not glancing at John behind them.

Freddie nods.

"Of course. Yes."

He twists his neck to smile at John, who perks up at being acknowledged. "Dear, could you get the pull out couch in the old office ready? I think Roger wants to go straight to bed after this. Don't you Darling?"

After a stiff nod from Roger, John pushes himself away from the wall.

"Of course." He says. Before he moves to leave the room he looks back at Roger with a warm smile.

"Would you like some more tea before bed? With your painkillers?"

Their eyes meet, Roger finds it within himself to force a smile.

"Yes that'd be lovely."

"Good." John says. 

He looks as if he wants to say more. His mouth opens and closes as he hesitates to step over the doorstep. Freddie doesn't move an inch until John gives another nod, fingers twitching by his sides, he forces himself out of the room and close the door behind himself with a final click. 

An audible relieved exhale leaves Rogers lips. Freddie turns to him and offers him a smile. 

"We're alone now. It's okay."

Rogers neck is struggling to keep the weight of his head up. Freddie can tell he is on the verge of a breakdown by the way his lip is trembling and his eyes are misty. He tips Rogers chin up, making him look at him. "Rog. It's okay." 

Rogers hands bunch up in his gown and his eyes drop again. 

"I don't feel okay."

Freddie swallows around the lump in his throat that keeps his oxygen trapped in his chest. He hates seeing the wounded look in Rogers eyes. Both helpless and restless in equal proportions.

"Hey," He stays calm for the both of them and takes Rogers wrists away from his gown. "Let's get you into the bath, then your day is almost over."

"Okay." 

Roger scoots to the edge of the seat until his toes touch the cold tiles. 

Freddie makes sure not to look at his nether regions when he supports Roger into a standing position. 

The gown falls to the floor. Roger steps over it.

"Careful now." Freddie mumbles. 

Together they walk over to the edge of the tub. The water has nearly reached the top and as soon as Roger has safely stepped over the edge, Freddie reaches across to turn the hot tab off.

He busies himself choosing which one of their shampoos to use for Roger. 

While he pretends to read the labels on the bottles, in the corner of his eye he can see Roger sink into the water followed by a long sigh. 

As always he pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around himself until he is a ball of skin and bones and blond hair. 

Freddie picks up Johns shampoo, before he slinks onto his knees next to the tub. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and shakes his damp hair out of his face. 

He grabs the shower head off the wall.

He sits on the edge of the bath with the shower head and shampoo in toe. Roger isn't looking good, but at least he isn't shivering anymore. 

"I'm gonna wash your hair okay? It'll smell nice."

"Is it necessary?" Roger mumbles against his knees without looking up.

Freddie once more reaches for the tap and tugs on the metal pull-up that makes the water flow out of the shower instead. 

"No." He smiles.

He waits until the water has turned warm before he holds the spray close to Rogers head so it doesn't splash all over the place.

The water rolls down Rogers face and back. He bows his neck and fixes on the water surface.

Freddie runs his fingers through Rogers hair, careful with the invisible staples in his skull left over from his procedure in the hospital. He moves the hair away and runs his fingers over the roots.

Grime and other things Freddie doesn't want to identify make its way into the water.

When Rogers hair is properly wet, Freddie drops the shower head into the tub and he screws the shampoo cap open.

He drops a generous amount in his palm, then Freddie spreads the liquid over Rogers scalp and bunches his hair to the coated roots. He massages the shampoo in until Roger sighs and the liquid becomes foamy. 

"There we go," Freddie reaches for the shower head again. "That's nice isn't it?" 

Roger nods once.

"Okay. Close your eyes so it doesn't sting."

Freddie waits until Roger complies before he holds the head over Rogers hair again. The foam is washed away, Freddie continues to run his fingers through Rogers hair to help all the dirt and shampoo wash away. 

The odor that Freddie had gotten used to is replaced by Johns breezy coconut scent. 

Roger sniffles. His forehead resting on his knees. 

"My head hurts."

"I'm sorry, Rog." He continues to let the water beat down Rogers head. Mixing it with the tears he is failing to hide from Freddie. 

Freddie almost reaches out to splay his hand over his back. Almost.

His heart nearly stops when he finally takes in the sight before him. He had been so focused on Rogers head and face that he missed the thick ugly scar tissue covering his naked back. 

Where his spine isn't pocking through the skin, past marks of abuse litter criss cross across his hunched back.

Freddie closes his eyes. 

His heart is beating too hard too fast. Cigarette burns, belt lashes and bruises old and fresh have burned into his memory. Purple, red, brown, white and green. Thick and thin. Roger is covered in them.

Heavy breathing has caused Roger to lift his head and twist to look at him.

He pushes the shower head away from his face. "Freddie?" 

Self-consciousness swims alongside the tears in Rogers eyes. He pushes his knees closer to his chest, as if to hide himself.

He knows he was being stared at. One can feel that.

Freddie's heart beats in his throat. 

Without meaning to he utters the words out between his teeth. "You're very beautiful Roger." 

"Stop." 

Before Roger can turn around again, Freddie cradles his chin. His face is hard when he says, "Darling, I'm serious." 

Roger wipes his face with his arm. 

"Can you help me out now?"

"Yeah." Freddie swallows. He rubs his thumb over Rogers cheek. "I will. A-are you okay? I didn't mean to—"

"I just don't feel like myself right now." 

"I understand."

"I don't." Roger leans in to rest his chin on the edge of the bath. He looks up at Freddie with those large irresistible eyes. "I don't understand why you help me. I don't listen to your advice and then you have to safe me. Why do you keep caring?" 

Freddie sighs. 

He lowers his upper body until he too can put his chin on the edge of the tub. On the same eye level, Roger seems less intimidated and his face relaxes into a neutral smile. 

Freddie reaches out to move a wet strand of hair away from Rogers face.

"Decision making might not be your forte, but I know you're trying. I care about you. Whether you make a mistake or two, I want you to be okay nonetheless." 

Roger snorts. "You make no sense. I am repeatedly stupid and you keep helping me." 

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because," Freddie chuckles, "You deserve better." 

The puzzled look doesn't leave Rogers face until a yawn forces his him to pull away from the tubs edge.

The bath water is rapidly cooling. The steam in the room is the only thing keeping the two of them warm. 

Freddie pushes himself to his feet and offers Roger his arms for support.

"You need to go to bed. John is probably waiting for you with your tea and pills on a silver platter." 

Roger rises to his feet and steps onto the tiles again with a shiver. 

Freddie reaches behind himself for the pile of items John had left for them on the edge of the sink. He unfolds the fluffy towel on top and opens it wide for Roger with a smile.

"Come here." 

He wraps it around Roger as fast as his arms can cooperate. Roger grins against his shoulder while Freddie rubs his hands over his body to sufficiently dry him down.

"I can do that myself, y'know." Roger whispers.

"What's the fun in that?" 

The longer it takes to dry Roger down, the heavier he grows. Though his arms are cradled to his chest, Roger uses Freddie's upper body to support him until Freddie is certain he is starting to drowse.

"Darling?"

"Hm?"

"You're not quite in bed yet." 

"Hm." 

He settles Roger down on the toilet seat again to wriggle him into a shirt once owned by Brian, which Freddie hadn't seen in years. After Freddie manipulated his arms into the holes, Roger swims in it, comfortably. It reaches his thighs and hangs off his shoulders. Freddie doesn't bother with the boxers and bottoms John had also laid out for him. He doesn't think Roger is up for much more— with his closed eyes and his head against the wall. 

Freddie decides to take mercy and for the third time in their relationship, scoops Roger into his arms to carry him out the door. 

Both he and Roger grunt.

A serious twinge has formed in Freddie's lower back. He struggles to open the door whilst also holding Roger. By the time he manages to struggle his way into the corridor, his arms are shaking. 

"Fred?"

"Yeah?" Around the corner comes John, with the tea cup and painkillers on a dish. He looks at Freddie, then Roger. Eyes worried.

"Is he sleeping?" 

Freddie nods. 

John holds the door leading to his office open. Freddie stumbles into the dusty room and dumps Roger onto the pulled out couch. John had already made the bed and pushed the duvet away.

Roger groans at the sudden contact. The couch also groans under his weight.

"Sorry." Freddie whispers. 

He wraps the blanket around Rogers body. His eyes are still closed, but he shifts his arm to splay over his face, as if to block out the prickles flooding into his senses.

While he gets Roger comfortable, Freddie can feel John standing behind him.

He comes closer to lean on the armrest of the couch. Watching Freddie's fast handy work with mild fascination, the tea still clutched between his hands. 

"How was he doing?"

"Okay." Freddie says. At the exact same time Roger mumbles, "Horrible."

Freddie finishes tucking Roger in and sits down on the edge of the bed. "So you're not sleeping huh. Johns tea won't go to waste."

He reaches for one of the discarded throw pillows to prop Rogers neck up.

Without a word, John hands him to cup. Freddie holds it to Rogers lips and nudges him awake with his knee. 

"I'm not thirsty." Roger murmurs. 

"For the painkillers, dear. Don't want you waking up in the middle of the night in crippling pain." 

"Hm."

Despite the lack of enthusiasm, Roger parts his lips for Freddie to tip the cup back. 

He then pops one of the pills in too. Roger swallows it down without a hitch. Assumably,   
he has taken his fair share of pills over his life. Freddie smooths his hand over Rogers cheek, before taking the cup away again.

As soon as he is freed, Roger slides down with a groan until he lays flat the couch. 

"That's all." Freddie grins. "Thank you."

"Hm, thank you too." 

He boops Rogers nose as a goodbye. John reaches for his hand as soon as Freddie climbs to his feet to pull him into a kiss. Something about the way his lips catch onto Freddie's is desperate and his hand is clammy.

Freddie steers him singlehandedly out of the old office. Partly to give Roger some rest and partly to keep John from suffocating.

Together they stumble out of the room. Before he leaves, he switches the lights off. 

He closes the door and pushes his boyfriend against it. Johns eyes are closed and his lips are parted, awaiting another kiss that doesn't come.

"Are _you_ okay?" 

John swallows thickly. "I don't know." He opens his eyes to peer back at Freddie. "He has a— presence."

"Yes."

"He is really living here now." His Adams apple bops nervously. His whole body is rigid with the same tense energy Freddie also feels coursing through his body.

Freddie leans down to kiss his neck. He lets his lips trail over the bridge of his apple down to the edge of his shirt. 

There he places another loving kiss. 

"Not permanently." 

"So you say." John cradles Freddie's cheeks to make their lips meet again. "We shall see if you ever have the heart to make him leave."

★☆★

_The pain in his back still stings when he hears footsteps outside his bedroom door._

_For one second Roger fears that his father hasn't given him the final blow yet. The pain sends hot flares to the rest of his body. All the way to his thighs and his neck where a numb burning sensation stings. When his door creaks open and light from the hallway floods into his room, he pulls the blanket over his head the same way he would hide from the ghost who lives in his closet and likes to come out when Roger can't sleep._

_Footsteps, too light to be his fathers, find their way to his bedside._

_His mothers hands pry the edge of the blanket away from his tear stained face._

_"Hi, sweetheart."_

_His own voice is stuck behind a ball of barbwire in his throat preventing him from replying. He just blinks at the round silhouette of her head. Even in the pitch black he can tell she is still in her work clothes and she smells like sweat._

_"What happened?" She asks._

_Roger can't manage his voice to work. Not even for her._

_His silence speaks volumes. A sigh makes her chest deflate and opens her arms for him. Roger kicks the blanket away to fall into her warm familiar embrace._

_His mothers hands are careful to avoid his back. She always knows._

_He sniffles into her shirt and his arms wrap around her neck to pull her impossibly closer against him._

_"I'm sorry, baby." She whispers into his hair. "I'm really sorry."_

_"Not your fault." He croaks out._

_"It is." He can hear her heart beating rapidly in her chest against his ear. For a moment he is afraid it'll come flying out. "It's not okay."_

_The sound of his mother sniffling makes Rogers skin crawl._

_He takes a shaky breath. "Don't cry mummy. I'm sorry."_

_"You don't have to be sorry Baby,_ I _am sorry." She lets out a wet laugh, before pulling him away from her chest. He sees her tears through the blur of his own. He can't let go of her work shirt, afraid she will leave. "I love you."_

_"Are you gonna leave?"_

_His mother smooths her hand over his cheek. Her palm is warm against his cold face. "Do you want me to stay?"_

_Roger nods._

_"Okay. I'll stay with you."_

_Roger is happy she is not going to dads room tonight. He scoots over to the far end of his bed against the wall and waits for her to take of her shoes and shake off her skirt. She leaves the items on the floor, before she crawls into bed with him._

_Her small smile mirrors what Roger feels inside._

_There is very little space. She opens her arms to him so he can climb into her arms to lay his head on her chest._

_Before she wraps herself around him, she reaches down to cover them both with the duvet._

_It is a relief to lay on his stomach so he doesn't put pressure on his stinging back. The hurting is blinding and teeth grinding. His mothers lips sooth some of the pain he is feeling, Roger curls himself closer against her body._

_She is warm and sweet. The opposite his father._

_"Go to sleep, Baby. Tomorrow is another day."_

_Sleep becomes overwhelming all of a sudden. He struggles to move his lips against her neck. He tugs a little harder on her shirt, letting her know he can tell if she leaves. "Love you mummy."_

_"I love you too, Rog."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession time: I am very overwhelmed right now. Next week I won’t update. I will be back like scheduled on the 15th again. Just because it is all a bit too much for me at the moment. I don’t want to disappoint, I just need a breather.
> 
> Really excited for chapter 11. The story is about to become interesting and I want to do it justice. Bless you all, thank you❤️


	11. Of Music and Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian shows Roger the ropes in his new house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I’ve been gone for a tinylittle while but I am officially back now!

Brian is too prideful to admit his disappointment when Roger spends the first week in the house completely bedridden. 

While John and Freddie are off to work during the day it is Brians duty to bring Roger his meals. Three times a day, he knocks on the door of Freddie's study, tray of food in his hands and often one of the cats following out of sheer curiosity. Nine times out of ten, Brian gets no reply and lets himself in. Only to find Roger still fast asleep on his side, drooling and occasionally snoring. 

A short dialogue of, "Good morning, Sleepyhead." And "This is delicious, thank you." Is exchanged wherein Brian sits on the edge of the couch and props Roger up to have his meal.

He would have kept him company if Roger didn't nod off two minutes into a conversation. 

After the fiasco that went down when he left the hospital in the rain his body has had a set back, beside the fact that he is still healing from his injuries. The fracture in his skull is tender, the headaches seem to be the culprit of his need to rest. 

Therefor, after each meal, Brian would get up and silently leave the room with the tray in his hands. 

Brian spends the rest of his day accompanying Roger to the toilet, cooking and waiting for his boyfriends to come home. Roger spends it horizontally on Freddie's old pull out couch. 

The first time Roger comes peaking around the corner into the living room, Brian nearly bursts with excitement. 

He lowers his book into his lap. He struggles to contain the smile on his face. 

"Hey, you."

Roger yawns in his palm. Johns vest hangs off his shoulders and Freddie's socks are pulled all the way up to his knees. "Hi." He says in reply, voice hoarse from the lack of use. 

There are enough seats in the living room for Roger to sit on, but Brian pulls his legs over the armrest and pats the cushion next to him, ignoring the dust that flies up at the assault. Roger complies and slinks into the couch beside him. 

He keeps to himself, just enough space between the two of them so their shoulders don't touch.

Brian closes his book without caring to mark the page he was on. He leaves it by his feet without looking away from his guest. Roger is looking around the living room in his telltale childlike curiosity Freddie likes to talk about. The color has returned to his face and his cheeks are flush with newfound energy. He looks a lot better than before, despite the bedhead and the lazy drag of his gaze over their second hand furniture. 

Brian struggles to find something to say. Something about Roger makes his stomach twist with butterflies and his palms go sweaty.

"You're looking a lot better than before."

"Thanks." Roger nudges Brian with his elbow and finally lets his eyes fall on him.

In the heat of Rogers eyes, Brians mouth goes dry. He struggles again to find something worthwhile to fill the silence in the room. 

"I was just—"

"You don't have to be so nervous around me 'y'know. I don't bite."

Brian pauses. 

Then a chuckle bubbles up from his lower belly to his throat. He traps his laughter behind his palm, still somewhat timid. "Sorry."

"Don't be. I don't want you to be uncomfortable in your own home."

"It's just—" Brian exhales and deflates against the back of the couch. "I'm usually alone during the day, waiting for the other two to come home. It's different to have someone here. Less lonely." 

Rogers eyes gleam, his fingers dance over the cushion of the couch, following the flowery pattern.

"So you're excited?"

He hopes his face isn't as red as it feels hot. "Somewhat, yes." He chuckles. 

"You're not working at all right now?" 

"No, I can't. Freddie and John have to compensate for my lack of income." The reminder makes his stomach churn both in pain and grievance of his own shortcomings. Roger notices the shift in his face and the frown wrinkling his forehead. 

His fingers are shorter than Brians, but they're thinner. The skin clings to the bone, making his knuckles jut out.

Roger reaches out to lay his hand over Brians on the couch. His palm is warm and dry.

"What did you do before that?"

Brian smiles at him sideways. "Teaching."

Rogers eyebrows shoot up and a mischievous grin takes over his face as he sits a little straighter. "What did you teach." 

"Mostly maths. Sometimes if the school needed substitutes, I could do other subjects." 

"What's 11 x 89?" 

"979. That's an easy one." Brian laughs. Roger seems genuinely impressed and taps his chin while he thinks of another. Brians cheeks hurt from how far his grin splits across his face. His muscles, not used to the strain they are enduring now. 

"Alright, Mr Brian, what is 66 x 49?"

"That's Mr May for you Mister Roger, and the answer is 3234." 

He can't help the smug smile that spreads across his face when Rogers eyes twinkle brilliantly. "Alright," He laughs. "I believe you."

"Good."

He knows not what else to say. His lips fall shut on their own accord.

Rogers fingers are still tracing the embroidered flowers on the couch. His eyes fall from the small window to squinting at the television set. Brian likes to have it on in the background without any sound. It helps him from feeling as if the walls are closing in on him. 

Whatever is playing doesn't interest either him or Roger. 

The younger man curls his toes in the fluff of the carpet. His knee jitters as if he longs to be stretched and moved.

"How are you liking the house?"

"It's cozy." Roger replies easily. As if for him forming words comes naturally, like taking a breath or swallowing. 

His easy going persona sets Brian at ease. 

"I like the furniture and I've never slept on anything as comfortable as that couch." 

"That's good." Brian cringes at his wording as soon as they have tumbled off his tongue. Roger, doesn't notice.

"Right? An upgrade." 

"Yeah."

He longs to slap himself in the face. Or to have Freddie in the room with him to safe him from strangling himself with his own words and killing the conversation as he goes. 

Brian jolts when suddenly Roger pushes himself into a standing position. 

The vest he is wearing reaches his thighs. Underneath Brian suspects he might be wearing one of his underwear for Brian has the most to spare out of all three of them. Roger turns to him with an extended arm. "Would you give me a tour?"

"A tour?" Brian blinks.

"Yes, of the house. It's huge!" 

"Oh!" 

That's better than what Brian had in mind, which was nothing. He takes Rogers hand but doesn't actually allow Roger to pull up any of his weight. He instead uses his own strength and the back of he couch to climb to his feet. 

Roger doesn't comment on his sweaty palm and doesn't reach to wipe it dry as soon as he lets go of Brians hand. 

"Do you want a quick tour, or—"

"Show me what you got." Roger drawls out. "I've got nowhere else to be. Do you?"

"No." 

Rogers smile is nothing short of sunshine and delight. His energy burst makes him outshine the brightest of beams peaking underneath the curtain by the window. One of the reasons why they fell in love with the house was because of its quantity of natural light. 

Brian leads Roger into the hallway. Most of their decor is second hand or gifted by their parents. 

They rent the house, monthly, from an elderly woman with grey hair and sharp wit. She also owns three of the houses attached to theirs. Roger listens carefully as Brian explains these things to him. Most people would not find it interesting where they found a vase shaped like a Cheshire cat, or who made the decision to make one of the walls of the living room vibrant yellow and the others blue.

"Try pleasing Freddie and than also John. The two almost never butt heads, but when they do..."

Roger giggles when Brian mimics to shoot himself in the head. Together they walk into the next room attached to the living room just outside the corridor. 

"So this is the kitchen, you've seen it. Nothing fancy here actually, except for the pasta grinder John got me for Christmas last year."

"I like the kitchen." 

Roger is on his feet, but not up and running. He lets his fingers drag over the wooden frame of the door. Brian forces himself to keep quiet over his fear that he might catch a splinter.

Their kitchen is small and crowded after they cramped the four legged dinner table in there too.

"You can always grab whatever you want from the fridge, but if you finish anything simply write it down so the next person to do groceries knows what to get."

A quick nod later, Brian smiles. "Good. What next... Hm."

The room opposite the kitchen and left from the living room is mostly unused. It takes a moment for Brian to rattle open, but when he does, dust filtered air prickles his eyes and the sunlight makes them all visible in the chilled space.

"Haven't been here for months." 

"Who plays piano?" Roger squeezes himself past Brian into the room. Looking around with an expression Brian can't read in the fine lighting.

He wobbles over to the old untuned thing once gifted by some of Freddie's distant relatives. The case was left open and Roger lets his pinky finger trail over the tiles. He catches more dust, which he blows away with tutted lips. Brian leans against the door to safe his strength, feeling it seep away through his pores fast.

"Freddie." He says. Roger seems pleased with the answer. "He is really good. I bet if you ask him to play something, he will."

A promise for the future rewards Brian with another fussy smile. "Good."

The room otherwise storages two armchairs they can't find space for somewhere else in the house, but they can't part with them, Johns work equipment is here too and unmarked carton boxes with items Brian believes they never bothered to unpack ever since they started living together. 

"Can you, play instruments?" He asks Roger.

"I can sing." Brian flicks off the light and they make their way back into the corridor to go upstairs. "Don't like it though, forced me to do it in secondary school. Got me a scholarship." 

The steps upwards proofs as a challenge for both of them. 

Roger takes a break halfway up. He twists around to sit down on the steps. His face red with extrusion and he pants after every other word. "Religious songs y'know. The creepy kind."

Brian leans against the wooden railing to regain his own breath. His lungs feel shriveled and dry. His stomach is in thick painful knots. 

"Creepy?" 

Roger nods once. "Latin chanting, 7 am practices, forcing children to wear gowns." 

Despite the strain, Brian feels himself smiling. "That is creepy."

"Do you play? Or sing?"

Oxygen slowly begins to expand Brians lungs again. "I liked to play guitar for a while, in University. Singing is for my showerhead." 

Roger smiles warmly. Brian clasps his hand and pulls him back to his feet. 

Together they climb up to the first floor. Roger once more out of breath, stops in front of the master bedroom. His shoulders relax and there is a curious glimmer in his eyes. 

Brian reaches around Roger to turn the doorknob and opens it wide for their guest. 

"This is our bedroom."

Roger slips inside and his eyes fall on the bed. Sheets unmade and pillows piled by the headboard, Freddie's shirts are thrown over the back on armchair by the closet. Brian has a glass of water on the nightstand. John has a book. 

"You all sleep together?" Roger asks. 

Brian watches him stand in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around his waist. He can't be cold, because the room is pleasantly warm. 

While he never bothered to turn the lights on, the sun still provides enough light to see the pink in Rogers face and the mirth in his eyes. Perfectly fixated on the pattern of the bedding as if he were imagining them in it. 

Brian stays put in the door opening. 

"Yes." He smiles. 

Roger hums— but then in the dark he suddenly yelps in fear.

Brian jumps away from the door and reaches for Roger to calm him down. "What? What is it?" They have had spiders in the room and other tiny bugs that cause similar reactions from Freddie.

Roger erupts into laughter. He bends down to pick up a fluffy black feline. 

"And this is Goliath." Brians heartbeat slows down when the shock wears off. Roger is smiling, holding a very unamused Goliath against his chest. Brian reaches out to stroke his fur. "He doesn't usually like strangers."

"I like cats."

Goliath shifts to rub his forehead against Rogers shirt. Looking more and more pleased with himself.

Roger presses his lips between his twitching ears. 

"Freddie does too, we have five now. The maximum amount according to our rental agreement." Brian chuckles. He only now notices how close they are standing to each other. His arm is still around Rogers shoulder. 

In a careful motion, he nudges Roger to the door once again. 

"You've seen Freddie's old office and the bathroom. The last room is here,"

He opens the closet like space, with in the door a kitten pass. Roger gasps when he sees whats inside. The rest of the cat pack sits comfortably in their tiny den, covered in warm rugs, blankets and pillows. John has engineered a small parkour for the cats on the shelves. In the corner stands a littler box. 

Oscar is the only cat who bothers to look up when the two of them enter the closet space. He meows, Roger to Brians amusement meows back. 

"This is paradise." 

"It sure is." Brian has to hold back a smile when Roger falls to his knees to scratch Tiffany behind her ears. "Their little sanctuary." 

Roger crosses his legs and makes himself comfortable against the doorframe. Goliath slinks further into his lap, purring lazily while Roger uses his other hand to rub Tiffany's belly. She rolls onto her back, her tail curls in the leisure. 

Oscar perks up further and plasters himself against Rogers side. 

"I'll leave you here for a bit. I'll be downstairs making lunch."

Roger barely spares him a, _thank you_ over his shoulder. He is too busy finding a way to pet four cats at once with only two hands. Brian leaves without closing the door behind him. 

He goes downstairs to start on their omelettes. When he is finished, he calls for Roger, who doesn't answer.

Brian climbs his way upstairs again to check up on him. Only to find Roger curled up in the closet on the rugs and pillows with the cats against his stomach and sides, bathing in his warmth. All six of them fast asleep. 

Brian doesn't have the heart to wake him up, for the first time in months he searches for his photocamera so he can snap a shot. 

★☆★

"What kind of music do you like?" 

"I don't know." 

The next day Brian finds Roger coming down the stairs looking even better than the day before. The bruises on his face have turned yellow and purple. The bandages around his arms have been redressed by Freddie and Roger walks easier every day. 

They are sat on carpet close to the record player. 

Roger has a saddened look in his eyes in accordance to his lack of knowledge. His knees are bare under Johns old gym shorts and his thin arms stick out of Freddie's worn t-shirt. He sighs. 

"I haven't really listened to music since 1964, when I dropped out." 

"Oh." Brian couldn't imagine a world of silence. A five year gap in his discography. At the same time he feels stupid for not considering the frame of Rogers life and everything denied to him for so long. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I used to like the Beatles, _You've Really Got a Hold On Me_. They played them to death at my school." 

"The Beatles."

Roger chuckles when Brian shoots up to crawl to the shelf of LP's stood next to the large red record player. He had sorted the albums himself, on alphabetical order and then chronologically. He owns everything the Beatles have done until now, 1970 with the latest Let it Be. 

If Roger stopped having access since 1964, he missed nine album releases. 

"Rubber Soul."

"Rubber Soul?" Roger asks. 

Brian sits back on his heels while he reaches for the green cover album between all others. He extends his hand to Roger, effectively beckoning him closer. He takes the vinyl halfway out of its cover, he nudges Roger with his elbow. "Take it out."

"I've never done it before." 

"Hold it by the outer edges, so the playing surface won't get damaged. Here," 

Roger is as careful as he is confident while he holds the black disk between his palms. Fingers spread. He looks up at Brian for guidance. 

"I'll lift the needle for you." Brian does so, before lifting Rogers arm by the elbow and to the record player. 

He lets the record slide in place. Smiling. "Now?"

"Lift the cueing lever onto the edge of the LP. Careful." 

"Alright." 

Roger nudges the lever down so the needles falls gently onto he vinyl. The familiar winding noise fills Brians senses and before _Drive My Car_ can begin to blare out of the disk-table, he lets himself fall back onto the fluffy carpet underneath him. He can feel Rogers eyes on him, before he is followed. 

Roger lays sideways so he faces Brian. His eyes are half closed and he draws his knees to his stomach.

They lay very close together. When the first tune of the guitar fills the room, he can feel Rogers breath ghosting on his face. His eyes stay on Brians and the tapping of his foot falls in line with the beat of the music.

Rogers fingers curl in the carpet fluff. He smiles.

"Do you like it?" He asks.

Roger grins wider before closes his eyes, leisurely spreading his arms onto the floor almost hitting Brian in the face. 

"Shhh." 

Brian presses his lips together obediently and forces himself to look away from Roger. 

The sight of him makes his heart do a flip. He is glad Rogers eyes have closed so he misses Brians cheeks warming up. Roger brings an energy in the room, which is light and playful. Even when he shushes Brian, it is coy with a sense of calm that doesn't make Brian feel subconscious for talking over Paul McCartneys familiar voice. 

He lays flat on his back and mimics Roger to spread his arms. The position strangely relieving the pressure in his stomach. 

The album blends into the second song, softer and deeper in musical texture. 

His fingers brush against Rogers.

Roger, without opening his eyes, laces his fingers together with Brians. Brians breath hitches in his chest and he prays Roger doesn't notice. 

He closes his fingers around Rogers until his thumb rubs over his bony knuckles. 

"She asked me to stay  
And she told me to sit anywhere  
So I looked around  
And I noticed there wasn't a chair." 

A squeeze. Roger shifts a little closer and he turns his face so his lips brush against Brians ear. "So you _can_ sing."

Brian unlike Roger doesn't know how to whisper sensually, so he stays quiet the whole time until the album finished and the needle slips off the record with a thud. 

Brian doesn't move when the music is gone. He waits for Roger to do so.

He gets to his knees and crawls over to the record shelf where he sits down, crossed legged. Through his shirt, Brian can see the bumps of his spine and the expansion of his ribs with every breath. 

Rogers fingers trail over the spines of the album sleeves. He grabs another, older and worn.

"What's this?"

"Freddie's, _Laughing on the Outside_. Aretha Franklin." 

"Never heard of her."

Roger is already carefully unfolding the album cover to free the vinyl. Brian watches him work. "Don't say with Freddie there. He breathes and lives Aretha."

"What kind of music does she make?"

"Black music." 

"What does that mean?" Turning, Roger raises an eyebrow at him.

For some reason Brian feels incredibly stupid. "Uh, soul. Gospel and otherwise blues, funk and such." 

His list doesn't seem to ring a bell with Roger. He turns back to slide the LP in place. Carefully putting _Rubber Soul_ back in its own sleeve before he can begins Arethas third studio album. The same way Brians Beatle collection is complete, Freddie's Aretha collection is as well. 

When Roger comes crawling back to the same spot as before, he takes Brians stretched out arm as an invitation for a hug.

Brian, not having the heart to deny Roger when the blond pulls himself flush against Brian on the floor so that their bodies are touching, wraps his arm around Roger to keep him close. 

Together they listen to Arethas beloved angelic voice. 

Their closeness keeps Brian warm in the winter cold biting at their poorly isolated windows. Rogers socked foot rubs up his calf. His fingers tapdance on his chest over his rapidly beating heart. If Roger hears the thundering pulse, he doesn't let it falter his pace. 

They talk about which songs they like, which ones they don't. Brian tries to show Roger more than simply his own musical tastes, allowing Roger to form his own preferences. They find out he has more in common with Brian than with either John or Freddie. Roger is strangely surprised by the direction the Beatles took after She Loves You. He likes heavy music, his breath hitches on guitar riffs and his toes curl at punching drum sounds. Brian is in a trance watching him. His new companion in his solitude. 

He is only shaken out when the front door creaks and heavy footsteps fall into the home. 

A cheery, "Knock knock." Makes Brian sit up, leaning on his elbows. 

The voice already gave away that it is Freddie, looking much more energetic than he normally would during a weekday after work. A glance on the wall tells Brian it is only 3 in the afternoon. 

"You're home early." He says. 

Freddie's smile doesn't betray anything, but his eyes do. The brown has a thin layer of sorrow behind his iris, it unsettles Brian. Even when Freddie stalks over and falls to his knees beside them. His hand goes for Rogers shoulder, who hadn't bothered moving even when Freddie had come in. He too has an odd expression on his face, more relaxed than before. Freddie smooths a hand over Rogers cheek, then he shifts to do the same for Brian. 

"Wanted to see how my favorite boys were doing." 

Brian leans into the touch his skin tingles where he is met with familiar affection. "Don't you have patients?"

"The only patients I care about are here." Freddie says smoothly. He crosses his legs and clasps his own knees with a broad smile.

"Don't you look so amazing already! Goodness, you're improving every second, Darling." His voice is full of warm praise. Roger soaks it up like a sponge that has been drying out on the edge of the sink. 

He ducks his neck to his shoulders and on his face plays a sheepish smile. 

"Thank you." 

Brian watches the exchange before him. He has to refrain himself from frowning. He has no reason to feel threatened, it is him who gets a kiss from Freddie in greeting. It is him who wears Freddie's bracelet around his wrist. It is him who gets to crawl into bed with him at night. 

"Come on, lets make some dinner for when John gets home." 

Yet it is Roger who Freddie holds his hands out to and whom he guides into the kitchen with another hand on his lower back.

Brian isn't sure what makes him feel envious. Sharing Freddie's attention or sharing Rogers.

★☆★

Brian finds out that Roger likes to sleep during the day and read books during the night. Freddie doesn't want to reveal much, for Rogers privacy, but it could barely have been kept a secret. In the quiet of the night Roger suffers from nightmares, the kind that send a nervous energy over the rest of the house. 

Brian hears him often. Whispering, whimpering, when he wakes up, wailing. 

He sleeps during the day often in company of Brian or the cats. The white sound of the television or radio and being in the presence of another person puts him at ease. He sleeps in sunlight, the beams make the shadows under his eyes more prominent. 

Brian doesn't have the heart to keep him up. He is content with Roger sleeping on his shoulder while Brian reads his book. 

Freddie is not a fan of Rogers time management.

The second week of Rogers stay, a lot of his injuries have faded in severity. All there is left now are headaches and scars. 

Freddie tries to bring some structure into Rogers life. He asks him to walk cats, do the laundry and help preparing dinner during the week. Brian much rather have them both hanging out all day, listening to music, doing nothing important.

But Roger doesn't complain about being included in household duties. 

That's when Brian realizes Roger wants nothing more than to become better. And that he had not lived a life anything like Brians. 

"Hey," Brian stops in the doorway of the bathroom. He finds Roger standing over the sink, filled with steaming water, seeping one of Freddie's beloved t-shirts in said water. Brians frown deepens when Roger turns to him with a smile and continues to rub the shirt under the surface. "What are you doing?" 

"Freddie asked me to wash the clothes." 

Rogers smile only falters when he sees the expression on Brians face. Brian wishes he could rid himself of his pity, but he can't. He feels it too deeply. 

He only then notices the pile of clothes Roger had already washed with his bare hands and the block of soap. 

"You don't— uh... We have a washing machine."

Pink skin flourishes over Rogers cheeks and neck until he is glowing like a tomato. He quickly withdraws his hands, wrinkly and raw from scrubbing and his jaw is set with embarrassment. Brian feels bad for ever opening his mouth. 

"I'm sorry. Of course you have a washing machine. Fucking hell I—"

Roger had begun gathering the soaking wet clothes against himself, trying to put them back in the laundry basket with the remaining unwashed clothes.

Brian stops him. "Hey, hey. Calm down."

"I'm calm." Roger breathes heavily through his nose. 

He is not.

Brian is fast to take the clothes from him and pile them back onto the closed toilet seat. Roger is left with empty hands, which he bawls up. 

"You didn't know, which is fine. We can hang these onto our old washing rack and put the other half in the machine." He wraps his hands around Rogers wrists, he tries for a smile, he doesn't get one back. "I'll show you where it is and how ours work. Next time you'll be able to do it yourself without any trouble. It is a chore but it will cost a lot less energy that way. Freddie should not have assumed you knew we had a machine, many people don't." 

Again he is feeling emotions crawl up his throat which he cannot explain. 

The lost look in Rogers eyes was unsettling. The shame that followed was unbearable. 

"Brian."

"Yeah?"

Roger looks up at their feet. He huffs until his deflated cheeks are hollowed out. "You don't have to try to make me feel better." 

"But I want to." He says. Feeling much like a child when he does.

At least it brings a smile to Rogers face. "I don't need you to pity me." He says, his tone serious and his eyes hard despite the twitch of his lips. Brian knows he doesn't want to feel belittled, nobody does. 

Brian nods once, giving Rogers wrists a squeeze. "Alright."

He pushes away the sadness he feels when he thinks of Roger washing his clothes in the sink all of his life. He must get used to the feeling, because in their companionship the more he finds out about Roger the more he feels his heart aching. 

"Roger, Darling."

"Hm?" It is another day, Roger twists in his chair to look up at Freddie standing by the counter over the pot with boiling water. Freddie shows him the cutting board where Roger has left the carrots and potatoes he had prepared for dinner. 

"All four of us are eating together tonight."

"I know." Roger says, though a frown wrinkles his brow now that he realizes something is wrong. "Why?"

"Well..."

Both Brian and Freddie look at the scarce number of potato slices on the cutting board. Barely enough to feed two, impossible to satisfy four grown men. Roger had sliced perhaps two medium sized potatoes and skinned three carrots into smaller pieces.

Brian is unsure how to approach the situation. Roger looks confused, Freddie mournful.

As always, Freddie pulls himself together with a sunny smile that puts even Roger at ease. 

"You can use everything we have, no need to be frugal." 

"Oh," Rogers face reddens and he shrinks in on himself ever so slightly. "It isn't enough."

Freddie lowers the heat on the stove and hands Roger the cutting board again. This time when he is given the vegetables, Brian moves over two chairs to show him the right proportions for a four persons meal. Together they skin the potatoes and cut the carrots into small slices. Brian can feel Freddie's eyes on his back, but that doesn't stop Brian from pressing his thigh against Rogers. 

"Thank you Darlings."

"Thank you," Roger looks up, once at Freddie and then at Brian. In his eyes, Brian senses gratitude and tingly specks of gold. "Both of you. And John." 

He feels for Roger, more than he feels for many others. He reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder with no care for the potato juices he gets all over Johns old Christmas sweater. He wishes he could convey the care that he feels inside himself pouring out to Roger, but words fail him. 

Roger smiles, small and contained, but Brian knows he knows. 

With time Roger becomes familiar with housework and cooking in correct proportions. Indoor work goes splendid so Freddie sets him up for the next step in his recovery.

"Brian?"

The anxious drips off of Rogers words. He stands by the foot of the couch, chest heaving too fast too short. 

He grips the leashes between his fingers until his knuckles have turned white. 

Brian sits up on the couch. The aftertaste of his nap still fresh in his mouth and his eyes are bleary with sleep. Today is a bad day. Pain flares have kept him off his feet since the early morning and he hadn't seen much of Roger, who is content reading and cleaning around the house all day. 

"Yeah?" Brian swallows. 

"I— uh, Freddie asked me to walk the cats." 

Brian nods slowly. Hiding his face behind his palm when he yawns. "M'kay?" 

Roger rocks on his heels. Eyes everywhere but on Brian. 

"Rog?"

"I don't feel okay going outside."

He uses the back of the couch to sit up straighter. His mind is still muddled from sleep. Roger stands over him, not really watching him but still giving Brian his full attention. 

In a way it seems to calm him down. His breathing slows down and his face regains some of its color.

"Are you afraid he will be there?"

"Maybe."

"Do you think he might be looking for you? Following you?"

Again, Roger holds up his shoulders. "Maybe." 

"Maybe?"

"I don't fucking know, Brian." Teeth clenched and eyes wide with pure fear, Roger looks much more like the day he first met him and drove him to Richards flat. 

Brian is woken up now. His senses sharpen and he reaches out to take the cats leashes from Rogers grip. 

"You don't have to do anything you don't feel ready for." 

Roger swallows thickly and watches Brian set the items down on the couch next to him. His Adams Apple bops and his hair falls over his pale face, hiding his embarrassment. 

"Freddie can walk the cats when he is back, no harm done. But I need you to calm down." 

"Sorry." 

Roger deflates and having been released of his duties, he finally lets all the oxygen out of his lungs. Unwinding his chest. He glances back up at the ceiling to blink away the mist in his eyes. 

"He isn't coming after you. I doubt he would let you walk out the hospital and stay with us for weeks if he were following you. Right?"

"Right." Roger breathes shakily.

"I understand you're scared, after everything you've been through, Rog. You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to if it makes you uncomfortable. Freddie would agree with that, more than anyone." 

The words are falling freely now. Brian opens his arms to pull Roger in for a hug around the waist. 

He in return is reluctant to wrap his arms around Brians shoulders. 

Even though Brian can't see his face because it is buried in the ratty sweater he is wearing, Brian can tell he is struggling to come up with the right words. His fingers play with the strands on the back of Brians neck. Roger smells uniquely like himself, yet, a new smell of home had mixed with it in the clothes he wears. 

Roger exhales and inhales so deeply his entire body expands and shrinks. 

Brian wraps him a little closer against his chest. 

"He was obsessed with me."

"Richard?"

"Ever since I was a child. He would spend hours playing puzzles with me, begging my mum more than I even to extend my bedtime so we could play another round. He was obsessed with getting to know me and be on my good side." He breathes shakily. "He would reward me if I had good grades, candy, new clothes or a day off for my mother. He loved me and took care of me after so many men had not."

Bile claws its way up Brians throat. The nature of Roger and Richards relationship disgusts him more each passing day.

"I doubt that after everything we had been through, he would just let me go now without a hitch. Without trying."

It feels horrible to say, but Brian peeks up at him.

"Did he not leave you for dead while you were ailing with fever?" 

"I have lost a huge part of me. My sense of self has completely disappeared, I don't know what I'm made off with these last pieces of heroin and Richard missing. I just don't know who I am."

Brian doesn't really know either.

Freddie has spent more time with Roger than he has. He understands Roger in a way Brian doesn't. 

He had always been slow to puzzle people together, unlike his boyfriends. 

He is unsure of what to say, so instead of speaking he pulls Roger even closer to mold them into one. The squeeze makes Roger huff. His arms also tighten around Brian. 

"I don't know much about you," Brian whispers, "But I know that I like you."

Warmth spreads across Rogers cheeks. 

He shakes his head and pushes himself away, thin fingers digging into Brians shoulders. "You don't know what you're talking about." 

"Sure I do."

"No you don't." Roger is smiling again, Brian is happy the darkness has left the room. He makes his way to the record shelf again with in his eyes the now familiar glimmer of mirth. 

Roger seems to like Brians company. 

Brian likes his. 

Roger reaches between the albums and pulls out the striking cover of The White Album. He holds it against his chest, seemingly forgotten about his anxiety and lack of self. 

"Can we listen to the White Album again?"

Brian doesn't feel like it's his place to tell Roger this seems like an unhealthy way to cope.

He falls back onto the couch and drowns into the cushions. His body hurts too much for his brain to cope. He lets an easy smile match the one on Rogers face.

"Yes we can."

★☆★

They have taken to whispering because Roger is sleeping in the other room attached to theirs. Brian struggles to follow the conversation in their low hushed tones.

In fact, he was about to doze off until Johns fingers spider their way through his hair. Rousing him again.

"How has it been spending some time with Roger?"

"He's a lot of fun." Brian murmurs through the fog of his pain killers. Johns fingers rake through his strands and accidentally tangle in the curls. "Anxious about going out the house." 

The bed dips on his other side and Brian is surrounded by warmth. 

He feels Freddie before he speaks, his arm wraps around Brians waist and pulls him flush against him. Brian lets himself be manhandled with a content smile. Not once does John stop caressing his hair. 

"Poor dear, just needs some nurturing and time to adjust." 

"Roger is not a stray cat you can look after. He is not a project." John says in a tone calmer than his words. 

It is too late for Freddie to engage in an argument, knowing him, he is sending John a smile over Brians body. 

"I wasn't saying he was." 

John sighs, his caressing hand trails down to rest on Brians cheek. His palm pleasantly warm. 

"I hope he isn't too much for you, Bri."

Brian nuzzles his face against Johns hand. Johns thumb smooths over his cheek. "It's not. I like him." 

"That's good to know." Freddie yawns. "I don't want him to go yet."

"Me neither."

"Jesus Christ." John groans. He slings his leg over Brians despite himself, drawing Brian in for a chaste kiss, before he reaches out to turn the lights off.

★☆★  
 _  
"Please."_

_She had not used that tone of voice in a long time. Not since leaving Michael._

_Richard had not reminded her of him until this moment. The animalistic look in his fiery dark eyes unsettles her severely. He stops to look at her, Roger is already in his bedroom. Waiting patiently. Winney's heart beats a little faster._

_Richard does not want him to overhear. Not only does he close the bedroom door but he also drags her by the elbow into the bathroom. Locking the door._

_She is slammed against the opposite wall, into the sink. Her spine collides hard with the porcelain._

_Richard does not give her time to recover._

_"After everything I've done for you." Hot breath fumes out of his nostrils against Winnifreds face. She puts her foot down even though her knees are shaking. "You question what I would do for that boy."_

_"It is not like that. I can see the way you look at him, I can see it Richard."_

_Her hands bawl up in her skirt and she is tired. So tired. She hasn't been able to sleep much between her night shifts. She fears leaving Roger out of sight for long periods time while both he and Richard are home._

_The strange feeling in her gut had not betrayed her before._

_She felt it when Michael lost his job and with her own father before she saw the bruises on her mother._

_It scares her, because this time she is out of options._

_"He is sixteen years old." She breathes. "He is my son and he is sixteen."_

_"Don't you dare use that tone on me. Don't you fucking dare. I have never put him in harms way, unlike you. I have made sure he has lunch for school, every day. I give him my bedroom for him to study quietly. I have given him and you shelter, comfortable sleeping places. How much do you pay for him to be here? How much?"_

_"I work my shifts, Richard."_

_"It barely fucking pays." His body is pressed against hers now, but not in the way he does with Roger. He is angry, his chest heaves and his face is red._

_The gentleman has gone._

_"You're a bad mother. You're trying to pin this on me, but you're a bad mother. You brought him into the world. You brought him here."_

_The words shouldn't hurt, but they do. More so than the pain in her wrists when Richard grips them between his large rough hands. She doesn't know what to say, her heart is pounding too loud for her to think properly._

_"Remember you begged me to take you in? Do you remember that?!"_

_She doesn't want him to yell so she nods stiffly._

_"You fucking begged me to take your son too. A whorehouse this is, but you begged me to let him stay here." He shakes his head once. They stand so close now, his nose nearly touching hers. She feels nothing but repulse for him where she once felt gratitude. "Now you beg me to leave him alone, after everything."_

_"He is a child." She says. Her voice sounds weaker than she had hoped._

_Richard pushes her against the sink harder. Winnifred clenches her jaw to keep quiet._

_"I have never done anything to him."_

_Even though her gut feeling had been present for a longer period, Richard had never done anything to directly blame him for anything. Her suspicions could be brushed off for something innocent, like when his eyes trailed over Roger when he spoke or the way he would hold him one second too long when they hugged._

_Last night had been different._

_After finishing his homework in Richards room, Roger had come crawling into the mattress with Winnifred._

_She had been slightly irritated when he woke her up from her nap before work. But the look in his eyes told her not to voice such annoyance. Instead, she wrapped her arm around him and pulled him closer, asking her only child what was wrong._

_"Something happened..."_

_"What is it, Baby?" Her voice thin. He might be tall now, but he is no less a child in her eyes. She lets her fingers dance on his cheek. Still soft and chubby with age. "You can tell me anything."_

_Rogers voice is lower than a whisper. As if he were talking to himself._

_They are nowhere near the others in the room. Richard had made sure they slept under the window on a decent mattress. Unlike the others they had a blanket to share, which Winnifred was grateful for and Roger never questioned. It is how he grew up._

_"Richard asked me to stay."_

_Her heart dropped into her gut. Her face stays neutral. "Where?"_

_"In his bedroom, tonight."_

_"Hmm... What did you say?"_

_Roger isn't looking her in the eye. He often doesn't look at people when he speaks, which saddens her._

_"I said I needed to think about it. I didn't know what you would say."_

_Her suspicions are confirmed, but she feels nothing but fear falling over her and her child. He is not concerned for his safety as much as he fears to be judged for his sexuality. Winnifred forces a smile to tug on the corner of her face. Her thumb smooths over Rogers frowning brow._

_"I love you no matter what, Rog. No matter what. Nothing can drive me away from you."_

_"Not even—" He swallows, he can't even say it._

_"Yes." She says. "Even if you're homosexual."_

_"Richard tried to kiss me. When I left the room." Roger speaks the words so fast and abrupt that Winnifred can barely understand them. She herself can't think of what to say before Roger continues to stammer. "I didn't expect it and it felt weird."_

_"You never have to do anything you don't want to. Did he force you to do anything?"_

_"No." Roger says. "He let me go, he was still smiling."_

_The tightening of Winnifreds throat comes too fast for her to keep her reaction at bay. Roger shrinks at the look in her face. He mirrors her insecurities. It is like looking at a reflection of herself._

_"I'm sorry mummy. He didn't do anything, it was stupid for me to mention. I didn't mean to upset you. He was just too enthusiastic and I was caught by surprise."_

_"I'm not upset with you, Roger. Don't think that."_

_"Don't be upset with Richard either. I don't want to get him in trouble, please."_

_She hadn't promised him anything, knowing that her heart would race and her skin would prickle when the next day, Richard got home and stole a kiss on the cheek from Roger. Who stood completely motionless when it happened, then Richard had given him permission to use his room, but only in return for a kiss from Roger. He pointed at his cheek, face alight with power. Winnifred had felt her world shatter when Roger caved in._

_"I forbid you to touch my son again." She says, in the bathroom. "I mean it, that's where I draw the line. He cannot become a part of your world Richard. If you care even a little bit about him you wouldn't let that happen."_

_The wheels are turning in Richards mind. She can see him thinking. Thinking hard._

_"Please." She is shaking. "He is in school, he will do better for himself. No drugs, no prostitution, no gangs. None of this."_

_His eyes have grown vacant. She tugs her wrists out of his iron grip._

_She stands straighter until her shoulders strain with the tension and her spine is stretched out. Richard does not move a muscle, keeping her pinned to the washing basin._

_For Roger she would risk it all. For Roger she would stand her ground._

_"Richard. I won't allow you to rob him of everything."_

_He stares at her for a moment longer, until he jaw unclenches and his fingers flex in freedom. Letting air breathe between them. His calm is her fear rooted deep in her heart, beating rapidly against her ribs._

_There is no air left in the bathroom. Even when Richard pulls away to leave, she can't breathe._

_"Very well, then."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg BACK again!!! What are u guys thinking?


	12. Of Conditions and Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger is haunted by flashbacks, nightmares and fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening darlings and gave a fun read!

Roger wakes up in cold sweat and gasping for breath 

He makes a long and low suffering noise in his pillow to drown out the sound in case anyone is standing outside the door.

The memory of his dream is burned fresh in his brain, leaving a dark cloud of sooted mist over reality. At least he doesn't cry anymore. The dampness on his pillow is stress transpiration and no longer tears. 

It has been three weeks since he began living with Freddie and his boyfriends and Roger still shivers every time the floorboard creaks or the shrill call of the doorbell echoes through the house.

With a tight knot in his stomach he forces himself to climb to his feet. 

The world tilts and Roger leans against the wall to find his way to the door in the darkness. Each morning after his round of nightmares his headache radiates across his forehead. Throbbing and pounding.

Anxiety is exhausting. So are the flashbacks.

The door to Freddie's old study doesn't have a lock, but during the night Roger barricades it with the wooden chair he found by the unused desk. After he pushes it aside and creaks open the door, he peeks his head around to corner to check if the coast is clear. Sunlight beams from the staircase into the empty hallway. The lights in the bathroom are off.

He tiptoes his way to the bathroom. Roger swiftly locks the door behind himself and ignores the cold tiles under his bare feet in favor of getting to the cabinets above the sink without having to turn on the lights. 

Roger is too familiar with the location of Brians orange tubed painkillers.

He tries to be as quiet as he can be. His fingers are still shaking when he wraps his hands around the rattling bottle. Only when he knocks the pills back dry, without water, does his heart rate slow down. The thick oval shaped medicine scrapes down the raw tunnel of his throat to settle in his empty stomach. He lets himself slink down onto the floor with his eyes closed and the blood rushing away from his head to spread evenly over the rest of his body. 

He breathes. Long and slow while the drugs finds its way into his system. 

Everything calms down moments later.

Roger comes to himself, curled up against the side of the bath when his chest doesn't feel as tight anymore.

The first lungful of air he can take is the biggest relief of his life. The bathroom no longer spins, the medication dampens everything that is unbearably fast inside of him. His heart, the blood soaring through his ears and the black and white images behind his eyes. 

Only then Roger finds it within himself to face the day.

With the medication in his bloodstream everything and himself moves sluggish and slow.

But years of heroin abuse have made it his expertise to present himself as sober. He must. Roger has only been there for three weeks, but the thought of leaving becomes more unbearable with the second. Still, the idea of Freddie finding out is nowhere near as bad as being thrown back onto the streets. He knows he has become too dependent on Freddie and his approval, but he doesn't know hie to pull away from it. 

"Darling?"

"Hm?" Roger hadn't registered he had made it all the way down to the bottom of the stairs already. He tries to blink through the blissful fog of numbing medication, before he misses the conversation. He knows Freddie's lips are moving. He is aware of Freddie speaking, but he can't make much of it out. 

The painkillers are not heroin, but they are opioids nonetheless. Dulling what he himself can't handle.

Freddie's face and smile come into focus with some difficulty.

Roger, in an attempt to make sense of the conversation, leans into him. "What were you saying?"

"Just that you've been looking so well, adjusting amazingly." 

Freddie is struggling to contain his excitement. Roger can tell from the way he rocks on his heels and his fascial muscles twitch. 

To avoid his shining eyes, Roger stares at their bare feet. He is standing on the first step of the stairs. Freddie is on the carpet and forced to tilt his chin to look at Roger. 

"I don't know about that." Roger murmurs. 

He vividly recalls his dream and Richards fingers around his throat. Roger swallows. 

Freddie reaches for something in his pocket. Rogers heart begins to race when he reveals it's his wallet, out of which he takes a couple of bills out. He holds the crumpled money out to Roger, his smile is nothing but confident and trusting. 

Roger suddenly can't breathe. 

"Don't do that." He whispers. 

His fist is tightly closed. Even when Freddie tugs on his wrist with a pleading smile. "Roger, don't talk down on yourself like that. I can trust you with the laundry, I trust you with cooking, I can trust you walking the cats, I can trust you looking after Brian every day. All I need now is for you to buy a carton of milk and some vegetables by choice for our soup tonight."

Roger in fact has not yet walked the cats since he has been in the home. 

But he can't tell Freddie he has been lying. He can't. 

It takes a lot of energy for Roger to pull his gaze from Freddie's wriggling toes to his hopeful eyes. Freddie's hand is still extended. Rogers is still closed. 

"I don't believe I can, yet, I-" 

"I trust you." 

Roger squeezes his eyes closed. Freddie's undeserved approval is a knife to the gut. 

"Let me do the laundry," He is close to begging and Freddie is beginning to sense his desperation also. "I will clean the toilets, I'll cook for the whole week, but I can't go outside."

Before the tears have a chance to well up, two arms are wrapped around him and Rogers face is stuffed in a thick woolen sweater. 

"Darling, oh Rog." Freddie holds him close, Roger for the time being can breathe again.

There isn't a place on earth he would find more comforting than the space against Freddie's chest. His heart thumps against the shell of Rogers ear, much calmer than his own. He wonders if he should take four pills instead of three tomorrow. 

"I think it's important for you that we keep your process going," A sure hand strokes through his hair. Roger leans into it like one of Freddie's lost kittens. "We need to show John that it is good for you to be here. That you are sufficiently recovering." 

While Brian and Freddie seem to be convinced of Rogers improvement, John always seems onto him. 

He knows that as the voice of reason, John makes the call for Roger to stay or to leave.

Roger hates that Johns suspicions are justified. 

"Take it. I trust you."

This time Roger doesn't struggle when Freddie pries his palm open, but no heroin in the world could stop the numbing shame that falls over him as he does. He stiffly pockets the money and Freddie gives him a hard squeeze.

"The store is right around the corner, a five minute walk."

"Okay."

"Good!" Roger doesn't deserve the sloppy kiss he gets on his cheek. Neither does he deserve the breakfast Freddie had prepared for him before going off to work. 

★☆★

Straight ahead. Two streets down, take a left towards the line of trees and road, then the store is across the sidewalk, which is a little to the left.

Brians voice echoes through Rogers mind along many others.

In case he forgot, he has the directions written on the back of the grocery list.

Dressed in Freddie's flared jeans and Johns layered turtleneck and red sweater, Roger shuffles his way down the street with houses identical to Freddie's. 

Even though Roger is barely moving, all the senses simultaneously flooding in press onto his severely damaged ability to stay calm. 

His skin prickles. From the tip of his nose to the ends of his toes.

He knows he is pale as a sheet. He feels drained and hollow as if the wind could pick him up if it blew too high. 

Each car that passes by makes his heart jump. Roger has already given up and turned back to walk home four times already, before chickening out on having to explain to Brian how terrified he is of being exposed in the outside. 

He walks as far from the road as the sidewalk will allow. 

The image of a car door swinging open and someone dragging him inside is too vivid. Too real. He imagines each stranger that passes him to be a spy. Hiding their brands and gang tattoos behind their gloves and long coats.

Rogers heart is going haywire in his chest. Beating so rapidly he fears it will give out.

"Fuck. Fuck."

A brick wall attached to a house works as a sufficient surface to slide down against when his legs decide to give in. 

The world is spinning and Roger is dizzy with the feeling of being watched. 

He hides his eyes on his knees, drawn to his chest to make himself small and invisible. In reality it will only draw more attention to himself, but in the moment Rogers breathing won't regulate itself if he doesn't stop feeling as overwhelmed as he is now. 

In moments like this he would prefer to be miserable. 

Perhaps the reasoning is idiotic, but at least he doesn't have to fear the constant possibility of having everything taken away by force when he is already miserable.

He knows that eventually Freddie will find out. Richard will find him. 

It isn't as comforting as it once was, going back to Richard does not feel like a blessing in disguise any longer, simply rock bottom. All he can find comfort in now is knowing he can't hit lower. 

He wishes he had the balls to take Brians pills with him so he could pop another one. 

The cold of the pavement seeps through his trousers and his spine hurts being pressed against the brick wall. 

Roger struggles to get to his feet. He is panting. As if he had been running.

The unfamiliar is dreadful.

"Are you okay?"

Roger jumps. Out of instinct he jerks back against the wall, he positively won't make it out of his 20's without his heart giving out on him at this rate. 

He struggles. His lungs cough up more oxygen than they can suck in. "No." He says.

The stranger is to his relief an elderly woman. 

Roger hasn't seen her before in his life, chances are low that she is one of the Bull Crew. Her hand is strong when she jerks him into a standing position. 

"You shouldn't be on the ground, weather forecast said it will be freezing today."

She assists in dusting him off. Roger is breathing through the gaps of his fingers that cover his lips. 

Her gaze is nothing short from concern. Roger imagines she is a mother, perhaps of a son as well. The idea calms him slightly, even though he must look like an insane person to her, anxiety induced and sitting on the floor in baggy unfitted clothes. Her hand is strong around his arm.

"Is there anywhere I can bring you?"

Roger is still breathing behind his hands. Its dizzying and his mind goes fussy. Though it is no excuse.

"D'you know where I can find Brampton Vale?"

The woman hums, surprise obvious in her eyes. "By Menom Road?"

Roger nods once.

She only hesitates for a long inhale, before she clears her throat. "Take a right by the fourth corner. You can see the church tower from there, but the road will take you straight ahead for maybe half an hour. It's a long walk." 

Roger is as skeptic about his ability to make it as she is, giving the tone of her voice.

He gives another jerky nod. "Thank you."

"Maybe you should go home, sir. You don't look too well." 

She reaches out to touch him again. Roger doesn't let her. He falls into a much faster pace this time. He is charged with energy he didn't have before. The fear carries his feet across the pavement and away from the woman who is left with a baffled look on her face. Roger doesn't look back at her. 

Afraid to confront the shadows he sees in the corner of his eye. 

★☆★

"Roger?"

"Hi."

Roger squeezes himself past Kevin and the doorframe. He is greeted with a familiar pleasantly warm hallway. Even though he immediately begins to protest, Kevin closes the front door anyway. "You can't be here? Roger what are you doing?"

He has been here a handful of times before, but Roger had never taken in the apartment before. Today he doesn't either.

Roger discards Johns sweater with unsteady fingers. 

He stumbles backwards into the one-room-apartment. Consequently the couch is the bed and the bed is the majority of the living room. Roger hits the frame with the back of his legs and he sinks down. He begins to struggle with the turtleneck and toe off his shoes. Kevin, tall and straight, long red hair still the same, is watching him, back glued against the door.

"Roger. Stop."

"I need some smack." He breathes. The tension in his jaw makes it hard to speak. "I need it now, or I'll fucking die. My heart is fucked up, Kevin. I need something to calm down."

"Go to the hospital."

"No."

The turtleneck is off and Roger begins to work on the belt. Kevin licks his lips. 

"Please, I know you have some. You always do."

"That was a year ago, Rog. Stop being silly and put your clothes back on. I'm expecting people in half an hour." 

"It's never taken you half an hour." 

He pushes Freddie's jeans down his ass and is left standing in his own underwear. Kevin is predictable and thinks with the hardness between his legs rather than his brain. He isn't completely stupid, he is a business owner and investor, but he has needs. Unsatisfactory needs Roger knows more about that he truly wants to. 

Today it might come to his benefit. 

Kevin is shuffling closer to the couch, Roger spreads his legs slightly, offering himself. 

"Roger, I stopped renting whores for a reason. I have a girlfriend now." 

His words are spoken shallowly. Like he has to force himself to say them. Roger watches him from under his eyelashes, he hates this, having to convince them to use him. He always hated selling himself. 

"Does she let you do whatever she wants? Does she let you put it up her ass until she cries?"

"She isn't a prostitute or a heroin addict." 

The harshness is meaningless. One second later Roger is pushed onto his back and his thighs are spread apart by fingers digging into the flesh like claws. 

"She doesn't leave after twenty minutes to hop onto the next dick." 

The harsh fabric of Kevins jeans rub against his underwear. Roger isn't hard. Kevin doesn't care.

"You can't always have what you want, Roger. You think you can waltz in here and demand I take your services? You're fucking crazy. I'm not below you. You can't tell me what the fuck I have to do. So, maybe you're right. Maybe you should be put in your fucking place." 

Rogers heart stops beating as rapidly as it did. It settles in a calm controlled pace.

The degradation stings, but the humiliation is familiar and safe.

Roger is rolled onto his stomach with a power not unknown to him. Kevins muscles flex under his tattoos. He bounces back on the mattress with the force. His underwear is dragged down and a heavy palm lands onto his ass. The slap burns, but it drowns out the voices in his head and the image of the yellow car following down the street just now. He forgets that the vehicle might be waiting for him to be done here and as soon as he comes outside Kevins door, he will be dragged in the back of the car and brought back to Richards to be a prostitute again. 

"I want to hear you scream, Roger. Let me hear you scream and I'll give you your smack. You'll do anything for it, wouldn't you? You'd get the outline of my hand tattooed on your fucking ass if it meant one hit of coke or a shot of heroin? You're so fucking shameless, it's embarrassing." 

Roger goes limp and closes his eyes. 

He forces his mind to leave his body adrift. He is aware that he is crying out in pain. His chest is tight with sobs, drool gathers on the bedding by his face. He recognizes vaguely what is his voice and what is Kevins through the smacking sound in the air. He is being beaten. Severely so. Tomorrow his backside will be nothing but purple and blue. 

Kevin never needs much warmup. Roger, after weeks of being unused, prepares for the worst. 

It does hurt.

Kevin is unprepared for lube and uses what little vaseline he had left to jerkily jab Roger with his finger. He also doesn't have a condom. Roger wordlessly suspects that is a lie. 

He lies motionless on the bed while he is fucked from behind. Whoever Kevins girlfriend is, she can't offer the power trip Kevin gets over controlling Roger. He keeps him pinned down. One hand on his hip and another on the back of his neck. Like a predator standing over its prey.

He bites. His teeth sink into Rogers flesh like he is nothing but a helpless piece of meat.

The mark will sting for a long time. The tiny dents of teeth in his shoulder never heal the way other injuries do. He remembers the humiliation. He remembers the possessive growls.

His usual boundaries and rules have all been thrown out of the window. 

Through all the misery, through the humiliation, Roger doesn't panic. He doesn't think this would kill him, he has lived through worse, but if it did. If Kevin reached over and grabbed the gun Roger knows he leaves in the drawer next to his bed— as drug dealers do— Roger doesn't fear what's to come.

Death doesn't seem to be the most unpleasant outcome of his life right now. 

He thinks about Brian, who's most likely wondering where he is. He thinks about what Freddie would say if he saw Roger being used like this. If he would still hold on to that it wasn't Rogers fault his life was shit. Or Johns disapproving, unavoidable, _I told you so._

"Fuck. You're tight."

Roger ponders how bad he is bleeding. How bad the internal damage would be.

He doesn't fancy another round to the hospital. He can't have the others know he was out getting fucked for drugs by one of his past clients. He had something he couldn't lose. A home. People who trust him. Safety.

Things he did not deserve and does not know how to cherish. 

Kevin comes with a long drawn out grunt. He harshly slaps his hips against Rogers for the final time. Agonizing pain shoots from his hole to the rest of his body through a thousand abused nerve endings. Kevin pulls out with a curse, muttering about blood and _fucking whores_ while the world for Roger turns blissfully black. 

★☆★

Roger stands in the shower until the water that flushes into the drain is no longer mixed with blood. After that he continues to scrub at his skin until he is rubbed raw and pink. The feeling of immense disgust is, to his regret, unwashable. 

"Roger?" 

There is a knock on the bathroom door. Roger has no idea how long he has been sitting in the corner of the shower letting the water beat down on him and his tainted body. The tiled wall is cool against his cheek and bruised ass. Roger could only survive off of these small reliefs.

"Roger? Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

His voice is barely audible over the water spray. The shadows of Brians feet are still outside the bathroom. Roger feels his upcoming doom coming dreadfully closer each passing second. He knows that this won't be easy to hide from the others. He is playing between two fires now, admitting his defeat and coming clean about his weakness with Kevin with the risk of being thrown out. Or risk not telling the boyfriends at all about his relapse and drug problem, risking he might never recover how he is supposed to. 

He has no groceries to show. He failed to wash all the blood and semen out of his clothes.

He is lucky Brian slept through the morning and hadn't noticed Rogers long absence, let alone that he was gone for over three hours. 

What he did notice was the lengthy shower Roger was taking now.

With a sigh, long and worried, does Roger turn off the water tap.

His legs are wobbly when he stands up. 

Freddie always leaves his towel on the edge of the bath for him. Roger wraps himself up in it. White and fluffy. He forgoes rubbing himself dry, or getting new clothes. He feels cold and alone. The sound of Brians voice had stirred a deeper regret inside of him. Something that longed to be better and be accepted. If he doesn't come clean to them he won't ever be either of those things. 

"I did something." 

He opens the door and utters the words out without his own permission. Brian looks stunned at the sight of him, then, concerned.

"What?" Brian asks. 

"I got drugs. I slept with someone and got drugs off them." 

Roger turns around and digs into the pockets of Freddie's jeans he borrowed and left on the toilet. He feels like a child, dropping the plastic bag of powdered heroin in Brians awaiting palm. Rogers hands are shaking. 

Brown eyes fall onto the item in his hand. Then he glances up once more. 

"Roger..." 

"I already took some. I couldn't help it, I really couldn't. I want nothing but to be better. That's why I told you. I want to be better and stay here." Roger bites onto his own tongue with how fast he is speaking. "I can't do it Bri. Everything hurts- my head hurts. He's everywhere." 

"Richard?" Brian asks, Roger nods. Suddenly the walls are closing in on him again. He steps a little closer to Brian as a precaution. 

"He follows me," Roger whispers. "He knows I'm here." 

"Roger. Be rational with me here, come on." 

Brian grabs Roger by the arms and squeezes him without hurting him. He looks worried and slightly sorry. "You have to tell Freddie." 

"I can't. He'll put me on the street."

Roger gulps. Desperation closes like claws around his throat and Roger shakes his head. Making droplets of water splatter around. 

"Brian..." 

"I promise you." Brian gives him a squeeze, hard and tight. "I won't let him do that, never. He wouldn't want to let you go when you're vulnerable Roger. You know he wouldn't. I for a fact don't know how to deal with this stuff, but he does. Talk to him." 

"Don't make me. Please, Brian. I don't want to disappoint him." He is too prideful to cry, but the tears stand so clearly in his eyes it wouldn't have mattered anyway. 

His pleas fall on deaf ears.

Brians hands trail down until he can lace their fingers together. He gives Roger a smile. 

"If not me, trust him." 

★☆★

There is something about brown eyes that Roger can't resist. 

Perhaps it is the never ending debt of darkness that lures him in and settles him down. Maybe it is something about the deep unknown. When he looks at his own reflection, he is stopped abruptly at the blue. But with Freddie he can sink in. Deep and far until he has forgotten that he was staring in the first place. 

Freddie never minded his intense eye contact or the lack thereof.

Freddie is always understanding and warm. He asks questions but never questions Roger himself. The brown of his eyes is as safe as the warmth radiating from his gentle smile.

Roger doesn't want to give into him. Not before he has come clean.

"I did something stupid."

Brian is standing in the door opening, his gaze is heavy with something sad. Both Roger and Freddie are on the couch, with Roger scooted all the way to the opposite end. 

"It's okay." Freddie says in the upmost careful tone. "You can tell me."

John isn't here, but still the two of them speak to him in calm hushed tones as if they are calming a feral animal.

It isn't far from what Roger feels. The drugs in his system had worn off before Freddie had come home. He feels strain in his heart, pain in his chest, not to mention how badly he is hurting over the rest of his body. He still hasn't managed to stop the bleeding completely. The pain he feels is humiliating. He rubs the back of his neck, where Kevin had sunken his teeth into him. 

Through the slit of the curtains he feels like he is being watched. His heart thunders. He longs for more of the quiet he gets from one too many of Brians pills and the sweet warm numbing of heroin. 

He shudders just thinking about it. 

"I'm sorry. I know you've put a lot of trust into me. What I did was inexcusable."

"Nothing," Freddie presses. "Nothing in the world is inexcusable."

Behind them, Brian shifts. Roger draws a deep breath. 

"I felt like I was being watched the whole way there. To the supermarket. You know that feeling, like there were eyes on me. The hairs on my neck stood up and I felt it so deep in my bones. I couldn't breathe anymore and my chest was too tight and all I could think about is how heroin could make everything quiet and unimportant again." Roger sucks in another intake of oxygen. He is pale, Freddie's face goes slack with realization. As if he couldn't have guessed what sort of trouble Roger would get into left to his own devices. Like Richard said. "I knew a guy, a client, who would always give me some smack in addition to payment. He deals low quantity drugs on university campuses. He was a regular for a few months so I remembered where he lived."

"Did you—"

When Freddie leaves it up to Roger to finish the sentence, Roger nods stiffly. "I let him." 

Without going into further detail, he reaches for the pockets in his sweater and fishes out the money, giving it back to Freddie with his lips curled down. 

"I couldn't do it. I told you I wasn't ready."

Freddie wordlessly takes the money from him again. Brian takes a deep shuddering breath, over Rogers shoulder they make eye contact.

He realizes, with a sinking heart, that this is it. He fucked it up. He got a chance to a second start and he let his addiction get to him. He should have put his foot down. He should have never taken Freddie's money. He should have turned around and gone home as soon as he felt the anxiety gnawing at the inside of his chest. He should not have asked how to walk to Menom Road. He should not have let Kevin sleep with him and hit him the way he finds so alluring. He should not have shot the heroin, even though it had felt like a treat. After weeks of pain and near death, misery and anxiety, it had felt like a reward to his endurance. 

A tug on his arm brings him back to reality. He had been staring at Freddie, now Freddie is staring back. 

"John can't know. If he finds out, you are out."

"He can't just do that. Roger needs us, we can't let him go over a misstep and let it ruin the rest of his life." Brian finally speaks up. Roger resists turning around to look at him. He is a bad liar, Freddie is a lot better at keeping his composure right now than Brian. Roger finds it much easier to face someone unphased. "This was a one time mistake, right Roger?"

"Yes." Roger breathes. "I slipped up. I'm so sorry."

Freddie squeezes his eyes closed when Rogers voice cracks. Shameful tears fill his eyes once more. 

His heart is too heavy for his chest. It hurts how rapidly it poubds against his ribs. 

"Recovery never goes in a straight line, no. There are always bumps on the road. We keep this to ourselves. Roger." Suddenly, even though he struggles against it, Rogers chin is tipped up by black manicured fingers. Freddie isn't smiling, but his eyes are sympathetic still. "This can't happen again."

"I know."

"Okay." They both simultaneously breathe. Though several tears accidentally slip down Rogers cheeks as he does. "And don't say a word to John, he won't be as forgiving."

"I'm sorry."

Freddie finally allows himself a smile again. He grasps for Rogers hand and kisses the back of it in the most delicate manner. His lips tingle on the skin where Roger not more than five hours ago had slipped in the needle. Freddie doesn't care about the scars. He never does. 

Instead, Freddie brushes his thumb over his knuckles. He draws himself closer to Rogers huddled body. "Are you okay?"

Roger is done lying for today, so he shakes his head, just once. Freddie's smile threatens to falter, but before Roger can see it disappear be pulls him closer for a long warm hug, Freddie's strong arms around his back and his chin on his shoulder. Roger can cry now. He takes a heaving breath and cries. Feeling stupid and undeserving. 

"I'm sorry." He says, starting a wet chant of "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. Freddie, I didn't mean to. I'm—"

"Shh."

Long fingers thread through his long shaggy hair. He feels Brians eyes on his back, they are comforting and warm. The chilling cold he feels coming from the window is a completely different sensation. 

Freddie sways him in his arms. When he is done shushing Roger, Roger dares to whisper. 

"I think I'm going crazy."

"No you're not, Darling. It was just one time. One unfortunate misstep. You're okay."

"Okay." Roger says. He rests his forehead against Freddie's neck until he is suffocating with the smell of him. The only way he wishes to die now. He lets his fingers curl into Freddie's sweater. _Don't leave. Don't you dare_. A warm hand on his lower back reassures him that Freddie indeed wouldn't. 

Roger closes his eyes and silently promises himself to stop touching Brians painkiller stash. If he wants to stay, he needs to get his act together before John could notice. 

Moments later, Brian has left the room to start dinner and Freddie clears his throat. 

"You need to rest, you look tired."

"Don't go." Roger whispers. He pulls Freddie closer against him. "Please. I know I fucked up, I make you lie to John. I don't deserve any of—"

"I won't go."

Roger is silenced by a finger against his lips. Shushing him.

When he is sufficiently silenced, Freddie wraps him close so that he again feels engulfed in warmth of Freddie's arms and chest. "I won't go. But don't say silly things, okay? Just close your eyes and try to rest." 

Roger, unable to ever repay Freddie for his sacrifices for him, nods.

"Okay."

★☆★  
_"Frederick Mercury."_

_"Kevin."_

_Freddie greets him with his hand stretched out, but Kevin pushes it aside in favor of a short brotherly hug._

_"Didn't expect to hear from you again, weren't you working in an asylum now?"_

_"I was a therapist, and no," Freddie dusts off his trousers. He is too dressed up for their urban location, but he has to leave the house at least looking like he is going into the office. "Got laid off a few weeks ago."_

_"I'm sorry to hear that."_

_With a jerk of his head Kevin directs them down the road. His red hair and brown leather coat catch the sun beams that struggle between the clouds. Freddie never felt completely comfortable with Kevin, in University he was always involved with people Freddie did not want to be involved with. Kevin himself seemed friendly enough and lived just down the hall from Freddie at the time. During parties and exam-period Kevin sold weed and LSD for low prices._

_They both went their separate way._

_Freddie became a therapist and Kevin, God knows how, owns some property now._

_"Well, new year, new beginnings. Am I right?"_

_"Right."_

_They stop in front of a small, narrow door with chipped blue painting, the building is wedged between two larger ones and on top is a rental home. The windows of the shop are too dusty for Freddie to look inside, but he already knows it is not much more than a few square meters of space with low ceilings and unpredictable electricity._

_Kevin radiates with pride when he hands the keys over to Freddie. Freddie takes the heavy bunch with a shuddering breath._

_"Its small, but it's a stall. Stalls do really good here in Kensington Market."_

_"Good."_

_The dust that Freddie breathes in infiltrates his lungs and it burns. It takes a moment to push the wonky door fully open without breaking it off the stiff hinges. Freddie already regrets putting the last of his savings into the deposit. His heart hammers too fast in his chest, it takes a push from Kevin to stumble over the doorstep._

_It is hot inside. Freddie rolls up his sleeve and covers his face. He turns to glance at Kevin, who is also covering his face from the dust._

_At his questioning eyebrow, Kevin shrugs. "You could make it work. All it needs is a deep clean and some lights."_

_"Right."_

_"And something to sell."_

_"Indeed."_

_"Something to get peoples attention. Maybe a radio or a sign."_

_It all doesn't seem as simple as it felt before. Freddie's heart is is picking up and thumps against his ribs. He should have just told John he was fired. He should not have rented a shop behind his boyfriends backs without a business plan, experience or anything remotely resembling a backup._

_He takes a long, deep breath. Lung diseases be damned._

_If he doesn't make this work he has no other options. Brian is nowhere near on his feet yet and since Roger began living with them their money is running out a little faster than before._

_Kensington Market is Freddie's plan D. The last one he has._

_Maybe not the most constructive plan he has come up with, maybe not the wisest, but he has second hand clothes to get rid off. Art to sell and a hunger for this to work out._

_Truly, what else would he need?_

_"Are you okay, Mate?"_

_Freddie turns to Kevin and his slightly narrowed eyes. He never truly trusted Kevin, so he nods, acting more confident than he feels._

_"Yes. This will work."_

_"That's the spirit."_

_They shake hands again. The keys are still carefully clasped in Freddie's hands._

_He will tell John and Brian, when everything is more settled. Eventually._

_Kevin after a second lets go of his hand and Freddie turns to look at the stall once more. He squints. He tries to imagine a corner with drapes for a changing room, racks of clothes against the walls and a cash register too. He will buy a bell above the door, carpets, a radio and other decor to make it more homely. He will make a sign to hang outside and several clothes to lure clients in. He will come back tomorrow and begin deep cleaning the place, repaint the door._

_"Yes." Freddie nods to himself. "This could work."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it and pleas stay safe during this trying time in the world. Loving you all


	13. Of Family and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house is haunted with lies. John seeks Roger out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder for the triggers, we must be reminded every now and then. A big chunky chapter for u beauties. Here to 10k!! Lots of love and enjoy

Freddie never explicitly told him what happened to Roger the day which they now to refer to as 'the incident' but John can tell it wasn't pretty.

For his and Freddie's sake he doesn't question why Roger ultimately did not manage to get the groceries. 

He also doesn't question why they don't let Roger go out without an escort. 

"Can't I wait in the car?"

John turns to Roger with what he hopes is a sympathetic smile. He would have clasped his shoulder, bur he isn't comfortable touching Roger the way Brian and Freddie are. The other man looks much smaller than he truly is because of the baggy clothes he borrows and the way he is huddled against the door. 

Without breaking eye contact, John turns off the engine and slips the key out of the ignition. "I promised Freddie you'd get some fresh air today."

"We can leave a window open."

He bites back an involuntary smile while he climbs out of the car. He is instantly surrounded by a thick blanket of cold. The fog stays heavy on the streets this morning. John huddles himself into his jacket whilst he makes his way around his car to Rogers side and forces the passengers door open with a gesture a doorman of a prestigious hotel would make.

Roger looks absolutely miserable at having to get out.

Even though Freddie had bundled him up in the fluffiest fur coat he owns, Roger begins to shiver as soon as he too breathes in the freezing December air. 

After closing the door Roger has firmly pressed himself against the car. He takes a moment to scan his surroundings, while John observers him. 

Deeply haunted blue eyes dart back and forth. Johns stomach flips with uneasiness 

"Something wrong?" He dares to ask. 

Underneath the turtleneck he is wearing, John can see Rogers Adams Apple bop soundly. "No." 

His breathing comes short and ragged. John looks away in case he makes it worse. 

John, before he crosses the road towards the high street, reaches around himself to clasp Rogers clammy hand in his. Though he can hear the surprised smack of lips, John doesn't turn around. With his strong grip he drags him across the road where there are people, many of them. Roger had been eyeing them uneasily the whole while. John feels sympathy for him, but also the slightest bit of impatience. 

Roger doesn't dig his heels in the snow, but he shuffles and tugs Johns arm back. Slowing them down more the closer they get to the crowd. 

Johns patience levels have been extremely low the last several months. It's the stress of his current life, he tells himself. It takes a bit more effort to swallow down knacks of annoyance he finds in the small things in life.

Pulling a stiff deadweight Roger behind him while the cold seeps through his four layers of clothing was not how he imagined to spend his one day off work. 

They are lucky there are barely any cars out on the road today— they surely would have been hit by now. The snow has kept most vehicles at home.

But it is the weekend before Christmas, the snow under Johns boots doesn't crunch anymore after all the people that have stomped up and down the shopping lane before them. 

John begins to loosen his grip on Rogers hand, but as soon as he tries to pull his arm away, Rogers fingers cling back onto his.

John twits around while he walks to address him in one too fast dizzying motion. Only to find Rogers face close to his, their noses nearly touching. Roger is white as a sheet of paper and his pupils are large and terrified. John slows down his pace. 

"You have to tell me what's wrong." He murmurs. 

Rogers face is scrunched up in obvious discomfort. John knows it has something to do with his anxiety to go out, but Rogers impatient eye darting suggests he isn't ready to discuss that with John. "I'm terrific." He says. "Can we _please_ keep walking?"

They have come to a complete halt in the middle of the busiest shopping district and it takes only a second for someone to bump into Rogers shoulder, sending him in a tumble to the floor if it weren't for John scrambling for his coat. The older man who had knocked Roger nearly off his feet gives him a hard look over his shoulder. 

"Hey!" Frustration that suddenly bubbles up his chest too fast sends John after the man, yelling. "Watch it you twat!" 

He is one step away from reaching the mans red scarf to grasp him— but John is quickly yanked backwards and met with large blue eyes. 

"Don't." Roger makes the sensible decision to pull him to the side of the street, where they are not in the way of the continues stream of people. "It's not worth it. I don't want to draw attention to myself."

He looks more and more awful with the second. Maybe John should have listened and left him in the car like Roger had asked. It surely would have saved them both a lot of trouble.

Roger watches him. John only notices that his hand is still in his when he gives a firm, cold, squeeze. 

"I'm sorry." 

"No, don't be." John utters. 

"I'm being a pain. I can't help it. Here,"

John watches warily as Roger unzips his fur coat all the way down to his belly. He glances around himself cautiously the way Roger would, John isn't sure what they are doing. And so much for not drawing attention to themselves.

Then, Roger does something John really doesn't expect.

His hand is carefully cradled by two unsteady hands and brought up by Roger. His flat palm is gracefully settled over Rogers heart.

The exhausted organ is beating in a pace so fast so rapid that Johns eyes widen in surprise. 

Roger, who has been watching his reactions cautiously, doesn't say anything. His heart doesn't slow down. John feels it pounding under his hand. 

"Do you need to see a doctor?"

With a firm shake of the head, Roger breathes out. John finds himself copying the consciously slow pattern. "No. This began since I left Richard and the hospital. My body becomes stiff and tense when I'm in public. That time Freddie asked me to go to the supermarket I thought I was having a heart attack." 

"But you're not?" John presses his palm more firmly against Rogers chest. He doesn't care about who is looking. 

He doubts that the rapid pace doesn't pose a threat to Rogers health. 

He can't remember his own heart over beating so fast. 

"No." Roger shakes his head. He licks his cold trembling lips. "But I just need you to know that I can't help it, my body isn't working right now. I'm scared, constantly. I can't help it."

"I didn't say you could."

"Then why don't you like me?" 

Johns eyebrows shoot up into his mushed up fringe. He keeps his hand perfectly still. 

"What makes you think I don't like you?"

Roger feigns nonchalance with a shrug. "You're impatient with me and I can tell you're not really happy that I'm staying with you. You're doing everything you can not to spend time with me, that's why Freddie had to beg you to let me come with you. I know you're always tired and busy, but I know you don't like me. I can tell when people don't." 

Finally John tugs his hand back to his own body. 

He defeatedly breaks eye contact. The disappointment in Rogers eyes leaves a bitter aftertaste in Johns throat. He had tried to keep his reservations to himself, but clearly not well enough.

With his eyes down he finds their shoes soaked with snow, but Roger will suffer more in his tacky worn converse versus John in his brown platforms. Roger is rocking back on his heel, always jittering. Always nervous.

It takes a moment for John to find the energy within himself to trail his eyes back up again. 

He breathes. Long and final.

"You have nothing to apologize for. I'm not as much of a twat as I seem to be." 

The corner of Rogers mouth twitches. John can only count it as a victory. He holds his shoulders up and deflates with the last bit of oxygen that was left in his lungs. 

"Brian has been sick, I have no clue what the hell is wrong with Fred. I haven't slept for more than nine hours combined since Monday. It's six days before Christmas and I haven't bought anyone anything yet." He throws his arms up in the air. People have long forsaken looking at the two lunatics having an intimate showoff on the edge of the curb. "Then you come into the mix. I promise you're very likable, but I can't say that your presence has been helping much with my overall stress reduction. Sorry."

John opens his mouth to utter another apology, he knows as soon as Roger tells Freddie about this he will be chewed out for this.

But John never gets the chance.

Suddenly two too thin arms are wrapped around his shoulders, drawing him in. His face disappears somewhere in Rogers messy, freshly cut hair (by Freddie). He breathes and smells his own shampoo on Roger. Without meaning to he melts into the hug, molding the two of them into one. 

Roger for being a short underweight man takes his weight without as much as a hitch.

John struggles with bracing himself. 

He lets himself enjoy the contact for a moment. He wraps his arms around Rogers waist in return. He continues to inhale and exhale through his nostrils. The cold makes his nose pleasantly numb the way only Englands winter could. 

"That better?" Roger asks.

John nods. "Very much thank you."

"Good." 

He expects Roger to pull away, but he doesn't. He waits for John to initiate the end of the hug, which John selfishly doesn't for a few moments longer. He savors the feeling of warmth pooling in his belly and closeness and something new.

It is not like he doesn't get held by Freddie or Brian, something about Roger is different and calming.

"We probably should get going before we get arrested for sexual offenses."

"Of course." Rogers words are empty. John is the one who finally pushes himself away from Roger. He holds him by the shoulders at arm length. 

Their eyes find each other with more ease than before.

Maybe he had tried to keep Roger at a distance because he never considered his stay permanent. Not if his track record was anything to go by. 

No. John never allowed himself to get close to people who wouldn't stay. 

With a final squeeze, John lets go of him. "We really should get started on finding presents."

Roger blinks himself out of his own haze. He smiles. "Yes." 

"I'm thinking something new and shiny for Freddie's wardrobe. For Brian we can find something more conventional. Socks or a book or something." 

Together they wrangle their way back into the crowd. John taking the lead and Roger hot on his ankle, breathing down his neck as the steady present of a ghost. 

"Sounds like a plan." He whispers.

★☆★

"With what can I help you boys?"

John doesn't jump at the sound of an elderly females voice, but the hand that falls onto Rogers shoulder is instantly shrugged off with a hitched intake of breath.

"Oh!" She is as surprised as Roger is, holding her hands up. "Didn't mean to give you a fright." 

"That's alright." John says for Roger— who is still breathing too rapidly to form an adequate response. John turns back to the clothing rack with the shimmering flower patterned jacket that caught his eye. He holds it up to the woman with as much of a smile he can force himself after three unsuccessful hours of shopping. 

"Do you have this in a larger size?"

"Hm..." She takes the hanger from him with a thoughtful hum. She scans it up and down, then glances at John to flash him a retail friendly smile. "I will check in the back for you, don't go anywhere."

"Thank you."

She and Freddie's potential present disappear in the sea of people. 

It has began to snow outside, more and more people are dragging themselves into the tiny shop to pretend they are browsing, instead hiding from the heavy downfall. 

Someone's kid nearly runs into Rogers legs. The mother mutters an apology just as another person rubs past their shoulders to get across the store. Rogers ragged breathing is becoming unbearable to listen to, John takes a moment to scan the shop over. 

There is one empty corner wedged between the children's section and the mens, where nobody is taking up the space. He tugs Roger there before someone else can occupy the quiet place. Roger comes willingly. The shadows of strangers in he corners of his eyes make him clamp harder onto Johns hand.

He settles Roger against the wall. Shoulders straight and legs wobbling. John stands in front of him to shield him from potential prying eyes.

"You're okay." John says. "Take a deep breath, Rog. You're fine." 

Roger closes his eyes and leans the back of his head against the door. His chest heaves up and down too fast on every breath. The panic has truly set in, John finds, cold sweat has broken out on Rogers forehead and his lips are bitten raw. He fiddles with something in the pickets of his coat. 

"I'm not." He pants. "I'm not. He's here. He's somewhere. I can feel it, he's going to force me to come back. I don't want to go back."

"You," John leans forward to squeeze his forearms. Even though Roger refuses to open his eyes, John stares at him. "Never have to go back. I wouldn't let you. I've stopped you before and I'll stop you again."

"He won't be stopped, not even by you. I know him. He's dangerous."

John swallows.

The whole gang issue has been something he tried to keep out of his mind. The fear that drips off of Roger could be indoctrination. For years Richard has presented himself to Roger unchallengeable, but John knows the danger is more than psychological mind games. Richard owns prostitutes and sells hard drugs. He knows people. He likely owns guns. Roger has scars to proof that Richard doesn't stop at torture. 

"He is not here, Roger."

"There's a hundred people here. He could be. Anyone could be his ally. I don't want to be here. I want to be home. I want to feel safe."

"Are you going to spend the rest of your life inside? Living in fear?" 

John nudges him, forcing Rogers eyes to open and focus on him.

He is bitter looking. Eyes deeply narrowed. 

"I've always lived my life in fear. Don't— you don't know me." 

"I know Richard is not here. I know you enough to understand that you have been hurt so much that you're constantly afraid of reliving your trauma, but you're not getting better by hiding. It will continue to haunt you forever if you don't confront what you are fearing. It's good that you're out here, you need to adjust to normal living. To crowds. You can't do that inside our home with just me and Brian and Fred."

Roger opens his mouth to say something else, but John is tapped on the shoulder by the reappeared elderly woman.

She wears a triumphant smile on her face as she holds up the larger sized floral jacket.

"Looks like its your lucky day, Sir." 

"Thank you."

John takes the hanger from her without attempting to smile. He turns to Roger to make sure he knows they are moving. Together they make their way to the cash register, operated by a young man too stressed with the flood of costumers to notice their lack of enthusiasm in their purchase. The whole time while John pays, Roger leans against his side. When they leave the store to find something for Brian, Roger doesn't say anything to John about their previous conversation, John doesn't expect him to and makes due with grateful smiles and a hand finding his when the sea of people makes their affection invisible. 

★☆★

John notices many things. 

He always applauded himself for his well found observations and well predicted perspectives. He lives with a lot of unshared knowledge held close to his heart. He keeps the information there until he might find it useful in the future.

Roger has his many secrets, but to John he is a book opened on a dark page, spoiled long by spilled ink. Perhaps some of it has soaked into some of the other pages, but much of him is unexplored, innocent in a way John finds hard not to feel drawn into. Those pages of his are waiting for the wind to catch and flip through, slowly revealing more of its other contents. 

John watches. He gathers.

The four of them are huddled around the television. Channel 3 is showing a nonsense Christmas movie of Freddie's choice. John doesn't like it much, Brian is on the comforter reading a book instead and Roger is beginning to doze. 

Even though the movie is bad and the candles Freddie is burning up smell like public toilet soap, John loves spending his weekends like this. 

His body is sore from work. His hair is still damp from his shower. He has a good view of Brian who is too engrossed in his book to feel the eyes on him. Beside him lays Roger, eyes closed in sleep. The blond mans hair is being stroked back by Freddie, the three of them are wedged on the couch together. Roger in the middle. 

John has his arm over the back of the couch so he can hold Freddie. 

"Why does the boy have to decide what to give to Jesus? Is that in the bible?" 

John twists his neck to smile at Freddie. "No its not."

Freddie hums. He stuffs his cheeks with chocolate but still manages to keep his voice down for Roger and Brian, who's still reading. "At least I like the singing." 

Not a big fan of the singing himself, Johns eyes drift from Freddie down at Roger.

His eyes are gently closed, fluttering rapidly behind his lids as if he is dreaming vividly. There is a healthy flush to his cheeks. John is happy to see it, for the image of Roger nearly dead in the hospital is still hard to swallow. What is less pleasant are the bruises on his upper legs, between his thighs visible now that he is unguarded in his baggy shorts. 

John doesn't know what they are from, but he knows Freddie must have seen them too.

One of Rogers knees is slung over Johns legs and his face is nuzzled against his sweater. 

The first time the subconscious cuddling had occurred John had been surprised, while Freddie wore a gleeful smile. Insisting John would stay quiet so Roger could rest. By now, after the weeks they have spend together John has gotten used to it. 

Usually when Roger falls asleep he starts on his side, facing Freddie, but he then tends to roll over and drift against Johns side. 

He is a noisy sleeper too, breathing, snorting, snoring.

John doesn't mind, much. 

Roger is endearing and easy on the eye, with his soft looks, pink lips and happy hums each time Freddie's fingers pet his hair back tenderly. 

He continues to stare. His heart must tug on the vein that leads to his thumb, because out of instinct reaches out to move a strand of hair away from Rogers face. Maybe to see his delicate features better, maybe because Rogers nose twitches each time the hair tickles him. 

"Is he okay?"

Freddie looks at him sideways and pauses his ministrations. "Hm?"

"Roger, I mean. He's been quiet since— what happened." 

John can tell Freddie is squaring up his shoulders to tell a lie. The mystery around the incident that when Roger was send to the store by Freddie is a dark one, all John was told was that Roger got a panic attack and never made it to the supermarket. 

It can't be the full story. 

Not if the bruises have anything to do with it.

After a stiff nod Freddie continues to stroke Rogers unruly mop of hair. "He's fine, just a bit shaken. I think."

"I talked to him, while we were out shopping."

"I sure hope so." Freddie tries for a joke, but nobody laughs. Not even he himself.

From the corner of his eye John can see Brian has tensed up and his eyes have stopped scrolling across the pages of his book. 

Johns hand has settled down on the knee Roger had slung over him in his sleep. 

"He said going outside made him fear that Richard or someone else, would be there to kidnap him or kill him. Whatever." Brian stops pretending he is reading his book and puts it down on his lap to show he is listening. "This is serious. He is going to go into cardiac arrest with this constant stress. He is seeing things that aren't there."

"He has every right to be afraid, after what he has gone through." The defensiveness in Freddie's voice is unmistakable.

"Can we help him with this, Freddie? I mean seriously. I don't think I can, I don't know what to tell him when he says he sees people that aren't there and suspects someone to come and kill him. Were you trained for this?"

Brian has gone tense across the room. Freddie stiffens as well.

John can't say he doesn't feel awful saying it, but he doesn't knows how to handle someone with issues like Roger. Despite what everyone seems to think, he does care. He does want Rogers life to change for the better, but he doesn't know how to resolve heart numbing panic caused by years of trauma. 

He squeezes Rogers knee. Roger snuffles. 

"What else can we do?" Brian asks.

Freddie shrugs and looks at John from the corner of his eye. The lack of sleep he has been getting shows on Freddie's face. John hates seeing the pain in his sharp featured face when he speaks. "I can't abandon him. I was the one who insisted he'd go outside. He's been worse since and that's on me."

"It only proofs my point." John says quietly, making sure his words won't sting. "You thought what you did was best, but it wasn't what he needed." 

"I will find a way to help him. He has only been here for a month, I know I can figure out a way—"

Brian straightens his spine to give his own two cents and Freddie is cut off mid sentence when they are interrupted by a low whimper. 

When John looks down at Roger the serenity has been replaced by a wrinkled frown. Rogers fingers clench around air and his body tenses up in his sleep. John lets go of his leg when it begins to tremble. The muscle under his fingers tough and stiffened.

"What is it?" 

Brian can't see Roger from his chair, Freddie runs his knuckles gracefully over Rogers cheeks. 

"A nightmare."

"Another." John mutters. He hates seeing Roger like this. He feels helpless and useless.

The other three grow quiet. Brian is sitting upright in the comforter while Freddie has slid down to wrap himself around Roger. Arms loose so that he won't feel trapped. Rogers chest heaves and his panic comes increasingly closer to the surface. Pained whimpers call names John doesn't recognize but the one. Richard. 

Freddie is whispering in the shell of Rogers ear. John can't hear what he is saying. Roger doesn't stop shaking. 

John could never discredit Freddie as a therapist. He is good at his job and loves it more than anything he had done before in his life while he was in university. But John can't help but feel like they're unequipped when it comes to Roger. 

He is thrashing and spasming in ways John has only seen in mediocre horror films. Freddie has to be careful when he leans against him.

This wouldn't be the first time he's tried to calm Roger during his terrors. He suffered accidental forehead collisions and slaps in the face with not as much as a hitch. 

Rogers nightmares are extreme. 

Each time John has to watch it he finds it harder to stomach. 

"You're fine, you're okay." Those words he can make out. Freddie speaks lowly. John doubts Brian can hear him. "Roger, come back to me. You're home, with me and John and Brian. You're safe."

John watches, spine stiff against the armrest and hands curled into his sleeping shorts. 

He doesn't fully understand why his heart does a flip when Freddie brushes his lips over Rogers forehead and Rogers brow smoothens out, momentarily pulled out of the darkness by Freddie's touch. A few moments and a kiss later, Roger wakes up with a jolt and a gasp. John looks away hastily, as if he hadn't been drinking in the details of Rogers face like a hawk.

Freddie distracts Roger, pulls him against his chest so they can cuddle. 

"You had a nightmare." He says.

Roger is still mostly asleep, or so John gathers from the slur in his voice. "M' where are we?"

His patience is everlasting. Freddie talks about the movie they are supposed to be watching in a low voice. Brian finally gets to his feet to check on Roger too, having a tentative smile on his face while he tries to squish himself between John and Roger on the already cramped couch. 

John takes his leave then. Under the disguise of washing the dishes from their dinner, nobody stops him, but Freddie side eyes him leaving. 

John doesn't give his questioning looks any attention. He doesn't always want to pick fights.

As tempting as it is to snuggle up against Brian and Roger and offer him comfort, John doesn't let himself give into easy temptations. He has his reasons to keep his distance from Roger when he still has a resolve. To stay reserved in ways his boyfriends have failed to. Roger has issues and those will cause problems if not dealt with accordingly. 

Their trip to the high street only confirmed that.

★☆★

John can tell when Brians pills are emptying faster than before.

Roger is lovely, _yes_. Roger is also a drug addict and a prostitute by profession. John trusts him about as far as he can throw him.

Because time doesn't make Roger feel better. 

It is the Mobday before the holidays, the house is warmly lit in Christmas lights and candles, they have their Elvis Christmas Record on and only wear their ugly sweaters inside.

Christmas is joy, Roger apparently hasn't had Christmas in a long while. Freddie and Brian are fooled by the glister in Rogers eyes. John can see past the thin mask of excitement. 

Roger tries his best to hide the paranoia from them, especially from John. 

His anxiety keeps him tightly winded. His shoulders are tense and his neck is stiff with tension. The wisp of the wind against the window or a plate clattering into the sink sends him into a state of sudden shock and fright. 

It goes as fast as it comes. 

But John keeps his eyes open. He observes and he sees more than Freddie, who sometimes prefers turning a blind eye if it meant accommodating Rogers behavior. 

Even now while they're playing scrabble and listen to music. Hendrix. On the floor around the coffee table the three of them sit. Brian appears to be winning, but only because Roger is distracted. His eyes keep darting to the window, where the snow is thumping against the glass. Outside there are children playing in their backgardens. Roger physically bristles under their piercing shouts and cries. 

The panic flashes by too briefly for anyone to take note.

Except for John, who had been preparing dinner in the other room instead of playing along with his boyfriends and Roger. He had finished the soup and lets it simmer in the pot to check in on them. He feels like a ghost, quiet and invisible, when he stands in the door to watch them, 

Roger flinches at the creak in the floorboard Johns weight causes on the old wood. Anyone else would not have seen it. 

They're on the floor, the three of them, with scrabble board in the middle and the record behind them in the corner. 

Rogers twists his neck slightly and lets his gaze fall on him. John sees nothing but a blue sea of shipwreck. Begging for rescue under the facade. 

John knows they are all lying to themselves, Roger is not okay. 

Like a ghost John walks back out of the living room. He can see Roger turning back this game, unsuspecting.

Nobody follows after him when he makes his way upstairs. He checks to make sure.

The house is dark but familiar. Johns fingertips graze the railing and then the wall to find his way to the bathroom without turning on the lights. His hand closes around the doorknob and he is inside. He closes the door before he turns the lights on. The whole time he stays alert for possible footsteps coming up the stairs after him. But they are all too engrossed in the game and each other.

The dynamics between the three of them are more than fascinating. 

He himself doesn't suffer from jealousy. 

But Brian does, his eyes narrow when Roger makes heart eyes at Freddie when he talks— which is always. Freddie drinks the attention up like he just finished running a marathon under the sun. He loves having someone looking up to him, sparkling eyes and boyish smiles.

John doesn't miss the times Freddie eyes Roger back. 

That is different, because Roger lacked affection for most of his life and is now indulging it as much as he can. There is no similar reason for Freddie to want Rogers affection, he doesn't lack any.

No reason other than liking it.

"Fuck."

He almost forgot why he was here in the first place. His brain catches on when his hands find the orange tube in the bottom of the medicine cabinet behind the stack of paracetamol boxes and couch syrup. 

The tube is nearly weightless in his palm. 

Brian isn't due for a new receipt in another month. 

John holds the bottle up against the light. A total of 4 pills are left, which is not enough to last Brian the week. Let alone another three. 

His suspicions had already been there, but now that he was sure Johns blood runs cold. His veins feel taught, he stands there, frozen. Bottle up in the air in front of his eyes. The four final pills taunting him in their numbers. 

_I told you so._ He tells himself with a pit in his stomach.

It all makes sense now. 

The grocery incident. His heart to heart with Roger. The paranoia and nightmares.

When Brian began to take the pain medication he had been warned by his doctor about possible side effects.

While Brian had thankfully been mostly unaffected by the potential dangers, Roger appears not to be as lucky.

"Hm."

John closes the cabinet drawer after taking out all potential harmful medicine.

He gathers them against his chest and stalks off to the master bedroom, the one room Roger considers off-limit. John knows addiction lead to desperate measures. Rogers drug rattled brain would not be above searching their bedroom when both he and Freddie were gone for work and Brian is in the shower or sleeping.

Having made up his mind, John finds the chest he uses to store their cash and hides the medication in there. It is an ordinary looking box. Something that could contain a teenagers diary or jewelry. The key is rusty and John struggles to lock it properly.

Eventually he manages to close it with brute force. He drops to his knees after checking the door one last time. Making sure he is alone.

He leaves the box under the bed, shoved between his old university books and a pair of Freddie's winter boots. 

With straight shoulders and a distant tug on his heart, John finds his way downstairs again.

He knows what he has to do.

In the kitchen the soup is heated on the hob. John doesn't bother to check on it. He goes straight down the hall to the living room. The boys are where he left them, unsuspecting and playing, it seems that Brian had indeed won this round.

When after another minute staring at Rogers back becomes boring, John clears his throat, ignoring the pit in his stomach. 

He doesn't know how to help someone like Roger, but he knows what he can do. 

"Roger."

"Hm?"

Bloodshot eyes, tired and pupils unnaturally large find his. John gestures towards the back door, ignoring both Freddie and Brians questioning looks. 

"Let's go outside, have a smoke." 

★☆★

"How have you been?" 

"Okay." 

Roger leans in for John to light the cig loosely held between his lips. They stand under the tiny roof over the terrace. Freddie's flowers have died and the grass is covered in snow, yet John enjoys the winter sight of their garden. 

The cold bites at their clothes. Neither of them bothered with a coat or gloves. 

John huddles a little closer to Roger. Roger stays still.

He takes a deep lungful of smoke. Marbelo. He waits for the thick heavy relief of the smoke to fill up the empty space in his lungs, before he exhales through his nostrils.

A few calculated puffs in, John glances sideways at Roger, cigarette held still in the corner of his lips. The cold is getting to him too, but as predicted, the nicotine calms his nerves and rapid foot tapping on the creaking wooden planks John swears are rotten with bugs.

"Really?" He murmurs.

Roger hesitates to lean against the side of the house. The brick will feel cold to touch. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just terrified someone is send to kill me." 

He rolls up his sleeve, casually, and turns his arm over to show John his scarred mark. 

"Gang and all that." 

Bile crawls up Johns throat.

The sick flavor is unwashable even with the smoke coming from his carefully parted lips. The scarred tissue engraved in Rogers skin is a symbol John recognizes from graffiti downtown and tattoos on people from rougher neighborhoods. Gang signs aren't something he had encountered before. Not on a person, not like that. 

All thoughts about the pills, the chest and the keys in his pocket are forgotten.

His fingers hover over Rogers arm. He expects Roger to pull away or tense up, but he does neither. Roger keeps his arm perfectly still and stretched out to John, offering himself freely.

Johns fingertip traces over the rough skin as lightly as he can. It has colored brown in the harshest burned parts, but the outer lines are thin and white. 

He follows the pattern with his thumb. It's almost too surreal to describe the thin skin under his fingers hooking to rough edge of burned flesh.

With his free hand he holds Rogers tender wrist. Grounding him.

He has long lost Rogers eyes. He is staring off into the garden. Breathing in the stale nicotine air and snow. The children aren't shouting anymore, all called in for dinner. The only sound John can hear is his heart fast and steady against his ribcage and Rogers ragged breathing. 

The symbol is somewhat round with two symmetrical points swirling out. 

He tilts Rogers hand up closer to his face. Examining the scar as closely as he can. His breath ghosts over the skin and Rogers arm becomes lit with goosebumps. It isn't ugly, necessarily, the thought is. 

He can't stop looking, even if its rude to imagine what shameful experience lies behind it. Rogers cigarette has nearly burned out when John picks his eyes up again. 

His own cigarette had a long trail of unflicked ash sticking to the butt. John taps the excess away.

He struggles not to show pity when he looks at Roger. Still he tries. 

He drops Rogers hand until it slouches back against his side. Roger doesn't look at him, even when John trails his hand down Rogers wrist to give his fingers a firm squeeze. 

"Freddie never told me that." 

Johns tongue is drier than sandpaper when he speaks. His voice sounds nothing like his own.

After a long inhale, Roger turns to blow the smoke into Johns face, smiling with his lips curled but eyes dead as the night approaching them from from the east. 

"My mother ran from my father when I was a child. He hit her." He adds, in case John hadn't been told. His eyes flicker between the garden and John when he speaks. He looks over the fence, checking if they are alone or not. "Our only option was to live with Richard, until she died. Then everything truly changed. If I wanted to stay at the place I knew as home, I had to make money. If I wanted to make money, I had to belong to the Bull Crew." 

His sleeve had rolled back down on its own accord. John glances up at his face. 

The cold has reddened the tip of Rogers nose. A snowflake has fallen onto his eyelash. John focuses on the small white dot when he speaks, hoping his words won't be as horrible as they sound in his own head. 

"You're one prostitute, one of many as I reckon, why would he keep searching for you?" 

"Because it's personal." Roger has nearly finished the cigarette with this inhale. "I'm fucking terrified of what he'll do when he finds me." 

John clenches his jaw. Remembering the four pills left in Brians tube. 

"You don't have to be scared." 

"I can see him, everywhere." Roger mutters. His eyes dart over the garden again, back and forth, not unlike meerkat trying to identify nearby danger. 

John turns to Roger and physically blocks the garden view from him. He puffs out his chest and stands his ground. It makes the other man frown up at him. John doesn't care about glares, he can handle temporary frustration. He can't handle enabling a drug addict in his home and assist him into an early grave. 

He tries to keep his voice low and calm as well as his eyes. Not giving away anything. 

"Isn't that your mind fabricating that?" 

Rogers face hardens. "No." He says. Voice thin but clear. 

It is frustrating having to stand there and pretend. John isn't oblivious like Brian. John isn't willing to brush the obsessive behavior under the rug like Freddie. 

He wraps his hand around Rogers scarred arm and tugs until they're not more than an inch apart. The gesture isn't affectionate. Rogers eyes widen in panic. John keeps a tight hold of him. 

"If Freddie finds out what you've been doing it will destroy him, that's why he pretends he can't see you're getting worse. Because you are. If he finds out why, he will not be okay and that will crush him. I can't allow that. You live under our roof, you're our responsibility now and I won't let you hurt Freddie or Brian." 

"I—" All previous color has drained from Rogers face. 

He goes completely rigid. John isn't significantly taller but in the moment he feels like he is towering over him. He doesn't have to yell for his words to boom and echo across the lawn. 

He points a finger at Rogers chest. At his heart. 

"There is nobody out there, Roger. There isn't anybody out there to hurt you. He lost you after you were brought to the hospital, the state you were in? He probably thinks you're dead. Those things you see are nothing but thin air and shadows. Those are hallucinations and you'll keep having them if you don't stop taking Brians medicine."

The next thing he knows, John is pushed backwards until he has landed with his ass onto the snow. 

The air is knocked out of him and the movement was so unexpected his senses take a long moment to recover from the blow. He splutters, baffled by the strength that Roger suddenly possesses and regains his balance to yell after him. "Hey!"

Roger pushes past him and runs into the house after stomping onto the butt of his cigarette. He is faster than John has ever seen him move before and lets the door clatter closed behind him. The sound of his stomps echo through the quiet neighborhood. 

John stares after him with his mouth hanging open.

His cigarette has long fallen from between his lips. He takes a long moment to gather himself, breathing the chilly air, before he claws his way back inside.

Just as John lifts his foot to step over the doorway, Freddie jumps into view, looking frazzled and confused, but instead of going after Roger he turns to John.

He blocks the door and he narrows his eyes. 

"What did you say to him?"

John scowls and pushes past him with some forcs. He doesn't care that he comes across as cruel. He's protecting everyone and there isn't anything else he has interest in doing.

"John, John! Get back here!" 

★☆★

"Can't sleep?"

Roger shakes his head.

"Me neither."

John had intended to go downstairs for a snack when the clock next to the bed read 3 am and he still hadn't gotten any shut eye. Brian had murmured sleepily when John untangled himself from him, but his boyfriends hadn't otherwise stirred. Clad in his sleep shirt and boxers, on his way to the stairs John had found light streaming out from under the door to the cat closet. 

He found what he suspected to find, Roger crossed legged on the floor, Oscar pulled against his chest, purring while Roger cuddled him. 

Roger looks up at him with red rimmed eyes. He has obviously been crying.

He hadn't come down for dinner after what happened in the garden. He barricaded himself in his room and didn't respond to Freddie's attempts to lure him out. 

John doesn't mention it. He slides down the doorpost and tries for a smile, the closet is small and his knee brushes against Rogers when he lands on the floor. Roger looks down at it, seemingly not completely sure how to react. 

He is dressed in one of Johns shirt. John wonders if he knows.

It reaches down Rogers thighs, underneath he might be wearing pants, but John can't tell. His long bare legs are white like the beaches in movies. His toes are socked, curling in on themselves and wriggling to keep warm. 

John forces his eyes back to Rogers face. He sees the insecurity there, which he planted there himself. 

"Are you kicking me out?"

The question is abrupt, John blinks. Then shakes his head once. "No."

Roger hoists Oscar higher. The cat meows pathetically at being moved, flexing it paws as a warning against Rogers chest. Roger rubs his chin between Oscars ears to shush him. "Did you tell Freddie?"

"No." Again. "I told you, I want to spare his feelings."

"Even if it meant you had to lie?" 

"There is too much going on for him already. He doesn't— he cares so much about you, Roger. He is willfully ignorant to some of the things you have been doing. He knows about your traumas and how little you have been sleeping because of your nightmares. He must know that you can't live like that, not even mentioning the paranoia and things you see. He is a therapist, he has to know that under the pressure, at some point, you'd crack."

"I won't do it again." Roger promises.

John already made sure of that. If Roger wants drugs, he'll have to go outside the door from now on. There he would have to face his demons, John doubts he is capable of that even without the side effects of Brians medication. 

To answer him, John hums.

Tiffany has strutted her way over and splayed herself across his lap. _Pet me_. Her tail curls in the air, John sighs and averts his eyes from Roger to brush his fingers through the cats thick mane. Carefully stroking it back the way he knows she loves.

A blissful moment of silence passes between them. Roger seems to have relaxed slightly now. He was worried John might put him on the streets, not taking into account John isn't a complete monster. 

Besides, he likes having Roger around. 

He likes his easy smiles, his horrible cooking and their conversations over breakfast. Roger is a quick reader and could recap the days paper while John is scrambling his eggs.

It makes his days a little more bearable.

Brian and Freddie adore him. John couldn't dare to take something precious to them, away. 

"We're spending an awful lot of time together lately."

"I'm sorry." Roger murmurs with the hint of a smile. 

Warm tingles burst from his underbelly to his fingertips. He sighs contently, "I actually owe you an apology, for coming off so strongly in the backyard. That was inappropriate."

"I understand." Roger says. "You want to protect who's dear to you. I have been quite destructive to your family."

Long shifts he spends bend over televisions and cars have made Johns back a mess of pained knots and creaks. Sitting up against the doorpost is uncomfortable. He wriggles away from the wall and closer to Roger. Who, swallows thickly. 

John doesn't think that's true. At all. Roger has brought a light into the house that filled up a space John hadn't noticed they had to spare. He is loving and radiates warmth that melted the cold after a period of darkness befallen over then during Brians illness. 

Roger comes with trouble, but he also comes with love. 

"I don't like it when people don't like me."

John looks up to see Roger staring at him directly with clear sober eyes. He shouldn't have wandered off mid conversation. "I already told you—"

"Like me," Roger says pointedly. " _like_ like me. Not 'tolerate my presence because your boyfriend thinks I'm cute' like me." 

This is the Roger he likes. 

A smile tugs on Johns face, he eyes Roger over again. His arms are bare in his t-shirt and he shivers with sleep. He looks as tired and restless as John feels. The lights in the cat closet are poor, but he can still tell various scars criss crossing over the length of Rogers arm. 

John drops a very betrayed Tiffany onto the pillows, before he hoists himself to his feet. 

He stretches his arm out to Roger with a smile. "Come with me." 

Roger drops Oscar with a glimmer in his eyes usually only reserved for Freddie. 

"Where are we going?"

★☆★

"Wow."

"Wow indeed."

The gun feels heavy but familiar in his palm. Roger sits down next to him, on the floor so their thighs are touching. 

It hadn't taken much searching for John to find the tattoo kit he owned in University.

"I wasn't expecting this from you."

"Well," John opens the little tubes with ink. He has two black ones left. He hopes it will do. "I don't have any myself, but I used to put them on my friends for a couple of pennies."

"Are you any good?" Roger asks quietly. 

He is leaning into his side, slouched and tired. John would feel bad for keeping him up if it weren't for the excited grin on Rogers face. 

"No."

They chuckle. Rogers forehead falls onto his shoulder and John leans his head against him while he tries to find his old sanitary wipes im the box. 

When he locates the three year old packages he takes the liberty of grabbing Rogers arm and stretching it out over the coffee table. He had set up the lamp from Freddie's office to give better lighting. Under the white glow Rogers scar is a little more terrifying. John resists touching it again, Roger is smiling now and he doesn't want it to die. 

He shifts to glance at Roger, whose face is soft with mirth and a warm glow.

John feels himself relax against him too. 

"What do you want on it?" 

"W."

"W?"

Roger nods, John looks at him while he wipes the skin on an around the brand mark clean. "The first letter of my mums name." He elaborates. 

John nods solemnly. He bins the wipes and snaps on the surgical gloves. 

"I see."

They both fall into silence for a moment. John goes for the marker he left with his kit all those years ago. He carves the 'W' over the gang sign. He can't completely cover it, but he can hide the recognizability. 

Rogers face lights up when John moves his hand away and shows him what it would look like.

His eyebrows shoot up, then his jaw goes slack.

"Can you do that?"

"The lines will be wonky and it will hurt over the tender scar tissue. I'm nowhere near a professional and you might get a nasty infection from my old homemade equipment."

Johns belly tightens when Roger nods. Eyes shining. "I want this." He breathes. "It's worth the risk."

A smile tugs on Johns lips and he reaches for the tattoo machine before Roger can catch on and realize how stupid this might be. 

It drills in his hand a bit too roughly.

He grounds Rogers arm onto the table. He uses one hand to control the machine and the other to keep his weight onto Rogers arm and keep the skin taut. "Gonna hurt like a bitch."

Rogers lips brush against his ear. John nearly shoots out. "Do it."

So he does.

The first hiss of the needle against Rogers skin causes them both to hold their breath. Roger really shouldn't be pushing back against the tattoo artist while he is tattooing him, but John can't get himself to ask Roger to stop leaning his forehead against his arm. Using it as a shield and grit his teeth. 

John tries to concentrate on the outer lines first. He traces the marker lines with all the precision he can muster. 

Rogers hands curl into fists. Fighting a fight or flee reaction.

The moon shines through the window and not once has John seen Roger worried about the noise coming from low hanging branches of the tree ticking against the side of the window. Or the howling of two dogs across the street.

No. Roger is here with him. In the moment. Sober and experiencing the pure pain from the needle.

It is a small sacrifice to make, nothing as painful as John imagines it was to get the brand mark.

He smacks his lips open only when the W is fully traces around the outside. John has to grab another needle to fill the tattoo in. He barely has enough ink left, plus he fears it is out of date. He doesn't voice his concerns to Roger, who is breathing hard into Johns shoulder, somehow rubbing the side of his face against him whilst looking away from his arm on the table. 

"My father died too, y'know. When I was young." John murmurs. 

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't talk about it often, he doesn't like to remind himself more about it than his mind already forces him to. His mother always told him to keep those feelings close to his heart, usually it works.

"It still hurts. Even now."

"Yeah." Roger says. "How did he die?"

"Heart attack." He is aware of his own words, but he sounds like a robot drilling out a predetermined script. "Nobody saw it coming, he was fit and young. It was very sudden. How did your mum die?"

The sharp curve of the needle makes Roger hiss. John murmurs a half heartedly apology. 

"Sudden too." Roger bites out. "A rival gang shot her." 

"I'm sorry." 

Another moment of silence passes them. There isn't a way for John to tell the time, but it stays comfortably quiet until he nearly finishes the tattoo. The scar tissue and his lack of skill has indeed caused some kinks and wobbles in what should be straight lines, but when John thickens each outer line of the 'W' it looks almost decent. He feels proud that he got to help Roger over this, even if its small. He has to start somewhere, like with the drugs. It wouldn't be a bad first step to take. 

"I joined the Bull Crew for protection, for shelter and because I knew it. It was the only certainty I knew." Roger perches his chin onto Johns bicep. John gives him glances from the corner of his eye when he can. "But Richard promised me something too."

Turning off the drill, John drops it onto the table. Done. 

"What?"

"He'd burn the people responsible for her death, to the ground." Roger doesn't blink, neither does John. 

"Big promise."

"It impressed me, helped me through my sadness." 

John hums thoughtfully. It's different to have your mother murdered in a senseless attack, rather than an out of control event. He applies the ointment to Rogers tattoo, the outer edges are reddening and John makes quick work of bandaging him up. Roger stays perfectly still, finally, Roger watches him wrap the white cloth intently with large droopy eyes. The pain adrenaline seeps away quickly and John thinks he might have to leave Roger on the couch tonight instead of dragging him up the stairs. 

"Did he?" He asks after a careful moment. "Find the person?" 

Roger shakes his head. "No." 

"I'm sorry." He says again, but Roger shakes his head, looking tired but also immensely happy when he cradles his bandaged arm to his chest. "I hope you like it."

"I will." Roger says solemnly, eyes hooded and sincere.

He sounds drunk with sleep. John smiles when Roger grows heavier against his side. He has to work tomorrow at 7. He doesn't even want to know what time it is now, but he fears he won't get more than an hour of sleep.

He wordlessly wraps Roger into his arms. Hand under his knees and shoulder to carry him bridal style.

Rogers face contorts with a yawn. One that John involuntary mirrors so intensely tears spring into his bleary eyes. When his face finally relaxes again he shakes the sleep off and finds Roger grinning up at him, looking content to be put down on the couch against the fluffy pillows. 

John reaches for the blanket they keep under the couch for movie nights. Roger curls his knees to his chest before John covers him.

His own cheeks hurt from smiling. He doesn't want the moment to end yet.

"Stay." Roger whispers.

John swallows and drops to his knees next to the couch. His brain tells him to leave, but his heart feels tugs him closer to the couch.

The carpet tickles Johns bare legs and he leans onto the armrest with his arms, staring down at Roger in quiet. "I'm here."

He reaches under the blanket and carefully moves Rogers bandaged arm into the open air.

"You have to be careful with that." John murmurs, resting his hand on top of Rogers. "If it gets infected I'll have Freddie on my ass."

"We wouldn't want that." Roger whispers back. 

His other hand comes snaking out from under the covers to take a hold of Johns hand. The blanket pools by his waist, leaving the focus on his copper hair and pearly arms. 

It dawns on him how close they are when he can count the lashes adoring Rogers eyes and feel the heat radiating from his flushed skin. 

John for the first time since meeting him feels free to openly admire him. 

With the hand that Roger isn't clutching, he angles his chin up to have a better look at his face, softened with the weeks of food and no heroin. Roger reminds him of the tall pale figures in Renaissance paintings he had witnessed while in Rome with his mother as a child. He remembers staring up at them, hanging straight and high from the white museum ceilings. 

Rogers subtle, ever ethereal beauty becomes harder to ignore each passing second spent in his glowing presence.

John has no idea how long he has held his breath, but his lungs burn in desperation for oxygen. Yet he cannot move. 

Roger is staring back at him intently. 

Hunger clouds in his eyes and John knows he needs to move away now, but he doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't mind where this is going.

Rogers breath comes out in slow careful puffs against Johns parted lips. 

He blinks, as if sensing the unrest in Johns mind.

"What's on your mind?" Roger asks with a squeeze of his hand. 

"You're beautiful." John murmurs dumbly, causing Roger to straighten up and giggle. 

"Shut up." 

Two hands cup his cheeks and keep him still. John freezes when Roger leans in and closes the space between them. 

The touch is soft and feather like. John lets his eyes flutter closed and lets his hands rest on Rogers shoulders. 

The kiss is slow and tentative. John inhales sharply while Roger leans in to press their lips together more firmly. Roger pecks his bottom lip between his own, no haste, no pressure. Rogers hair tickles his forehead and John finds himself pulling Roger in for more. Tingles bloom to the rest of Johns body and he shivers, struggling not to push Roger back against the couch and lick into his mouth no matter how he craves to do just that. 

Roger makes a soft noise at the back of his throat. John moans, playing with the hair on the nape of Rogers neck. 

"Hm." He tugs insistently on Rogers bottom lip with his teeth when the blond pulls away from the kiss. Roger laughs breathily at his desperation, not straying far.

John is hot all over, but can't get himself to be embarrassed. 

Roger keeps his face at a distance. His cheeks are pink too and his eyes are shining. 

"Thank you." He pants.

Johns lips are still tingling from where Rogers had touched his, he too struggles to regain his composure.

It is a lost cause. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Rogers. Sighing. "You're welcome."

★☆★  
 _  
"Imogen, it's time."_

_Janice gives her a gentle yet insistent tug on her elbow to get her moving. It isn't often that they are permitted to go into Richards bedroom._

_She is careful to keep the disdain from her face when she steps into the corridor. The door is open and she can hear the voices inside discussing things she wishes not to hear. The cloud that hangs over them reminds her of her own branding._

_Janice waits for her to step into the room first. Imogen is grateful for secure the hand on her back._

_The bedroom hasn't changed since the last time she saw it._

_Janice and herself were the last to arrive._

_The other girls stand in a circle pressed against the wall as far away from the scene as they can. The three men stand around the table in the middle of the room._

_Imogens heart thunders in her chest at the familiar scene before her._

_Roger lays flat on the table. Belly up and limbs tied to the extend of complete immobility. He is poorly gagged with a cloth half shoved down his throat. He bites on it and chews while his eyes frantically move around the room._

_His eyes land on the man next to Richard, who is holding the infamous branding pole._

_It glows orange with heat. Janice huddles closer to her to hide her own discomfort at the memory of it burning against her skin too._

_Richard runs a hand over Rogers tear stained face. "It will be over soon." He says. "I promise."_

_The words hold no comfort. Roger is breathing harshly through his nose and a beat of sweat rolls down his temple. He looks Richard right in the eye, as if to beg him to stop this now._ Isn't there another way? __

_Rogers sobs increase in volume when the heat of the iron hoovers over his skin. He shakes. Kicks his legs against the ropes, curling his toes. His nails dig into the wood of the table, causing them to break and scratches to dent the surface._

_Imogen averts her eyes and looks around the room to see the other girls doing the same._

_She closes her eyes when Richard gives a shallow nod._

_Roy, Richards right hand man, angels the iron symbol to Rogers arm. Neither she or Janice are watching, but they don't need their eyes to know what is being done._

_Roger bursts out into a silent scream when the iron comes in contact with his arm. The skin sizzles and the smell of burning flesh overwhelms the room._

_Imogen covers his face with her hand against the smell and to wipe away her tears._

_Somewhere in the room someone hiccups on a sob, but it is swallowed by another blood curdling scream that forces her bones to rattle under her skin._

_He screams and thrashes. Roy only pulls the iron away when Richard speaks up seconds later. "Enough."_

_Roger cries, heaving for air while Richard leans over his body to pet his hair away from his forehead. He is smiling over him. Imogen feels sick to her stomach, wondering how he can stand the stench of Rogers burned skin._

_"See, it's over now. Wasn't all that bad."_

_Roger can't answer. Richard doesn't expect him to. He angles his chin up to force him to look at him while he cries. His nails dig into Rogers cheeks._

_"You're mine now."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, I hope you enjoyed this next chapter. I have been really sick but I will be answering comments right now. 
> 
> I appreciate them so much and they have actually made it so that I get excited to publish every week, instead of scared people won’t show up anymore. This is a thank you for all you loyal troopers!


	14. Of Breaking and Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s almost Christmas and Roger learns what he has got to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh myyy!!! Ok long chapter here again, 7K for my beauties. I love you all.

"Hey sleepyhead."

"Hi."

Its ten past elven when Freddie decides Roger has had enough sleep. He is crouched on his feet next to the couch, he runs a hand through Rogers bed ruffled tresses. Roger, only half awake, ducks his head to lean into his touch. His skin is flush with sleep and his eyes blink closed again. 

Laughter bubbles up Freddie's throat when Roger nods off again. 

He trails his hand down to cup Rogers cheek, tapping it until Rogers nose twitches in annoyance and his eyes reopen. 

"There he is."

"Is'early." 

Freddie thumbs away the crusty sleep in the corner of Rogers eye. Roger stills under the touch, trusting. "It's eleven."

"So?" He yawns and Freddie once he flicks his hand clean, pulls the blanket away from Rogers body.

"No." He whines, arm pulled over his face.

Only now Freddie takes note of the bandage wrapped around it. He doesn't say anything for the time being, instead he bundles the blanket up and piles it under the couch. Roger has curled his bare legs to his chest. Dramatically shivering in the cold he can't be feeling, because Freddie had turned the heater on hours ago. 

"Yes!" He smiles, "I made breakfast." 

Roger lowers his arm to look at him. Suddenly interested. "What you got?"

Freddie had spend the morning preparing for Christmas, which is just around the corner. He has closed the stall for the day to do so, lied to John about having no clients on Monday. There is always a lot of preparation to do and this year it will be Freddie doing most of it himself. John is usually the one who prepares Christmas dinner, but he can't under the current circumstances with his job. Brian can't stand for so long and Roger has never made Christmas dinner himself. They agreed for Freddie to take care of it. 

"Do you smell that?" 

Roger pushes himself in a sitting position. Rubbing his face to wake up. "What?"

The living room is filled with the warm aroma of freshly baked goods. The smell is thick and unmistakable, Freddie's mouth has been watering ever since he took them out of the oven. 

"I baked Christmas cookies." He frowns. "Can't you smell it?"

Roger shakes his head, slow and sheepish. "I lost most of my sense of smell years ago. I snorted too much." 

His voice comes out indifferent and at peace. Freddie can tell he doesn't want to get into these details today. Not when they both have a faint smile on their face and the Christmas tree casts a homey shadow over the living room. 

"Maybe," Freddie hastes his way into the kitchen and back. Returning to the living room with his freshly baked goods. "If you hold it up close you can." 

He stands in front of Roger, who is still heavily leaning against the side of the couch with droopy eyes. Freddie lowers his arms and lets him sniff the cooling cookie tray. 

Roger leans in with a raised eyebrow. 

A bright smile takes over his face when he closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Eyes flickering up at Freddie. 

"That's really good."

"Thank you." Freddie beams, half because Rogers is infectious and half because of the compliment. He prompts for Roger to take one and also takes one for himself. 

They put the tray down on the coffee table which they sit opposite of on the floor.

Sleep is slowly fading from Rogers puffy eyes. 

Whatever happened between him and John yesterday had been emotional, but necessary. Both of them had woken up in a good mood, Freddie assumed all is well. John didn't want to talk about what was said in the garden and why he was out of bed from 3 to 5 am last night. 

Roger is still munching on his cookie, content in the quiet. His hair is sticking up to one side and his shirt is rumpled with sleep. 

He is glancing sideways at Freddie, feeling observed. 

"Hm?"

Freddie reaches out to comb down the unruly strands. Roger bows his head to give him more access, looking up at Freddie from between his fringe. 

The weeks of using their hair products and regular showers have left Rogers hair soft and the natural color shining. 

"Maybe you need another haircut." Freddie mumbles, brushing his hair down to find the natural parting in the middle. 

"John told me not to let you near me with scissors again." 

Freddie laughs, knowing he should be offended but even he had to admit he didn't cut a single strand straight when he cut Rogers hair the first week he came to the house. Sighing, he lets his hand fall onto Rogers knee instead, squeezing him to make him smile again too. Cheeks puffed with cookie crumbles.

For a long moment Freddie forgets about everything. 

Kensington Market, his job, Brians illness, the bags under Johns eyes and Rogers echoing cries during his nightmares. 

They're here now, the two of them. The Christmas tree is lit up and giving the room a fresh pine scent. The lights illuminate happy colors against the other furniture. They have cut up some wood for the hearth and purchased the newest released Christmas LP's. 

They are exclusively wearing pajamas and Christmas sweaters now. 

Roger looks as cozy in Johns shirt as Freddie feels in Brians. Both their feet covered by thick woolen socks.

Roger leans in to bump their shoulders together and steal another cookie. 

"What are we doing today?" 

Freddie grins and wriggles his eyebrows. Roger seems caught between chuckling and concern. 

He reaches for the plastic shopping back he left next to the coffee table. He puts it between him and Roger, who helps him to lay the items out before them on the wooden surface. Clear tape, scissors, colorful paper and bows. 

"Packing gifts!"

Rogers face lights up, then less than a second later it falls again. "I didn't get anyone anything."

"We only buy one gift for each of us, a collective gift." Freddie flicks his wrist, careful with his wording.

Rogers uneasiness doesn't completely vanish. "I didn't contribute to it." 

"You're packing, arent you?"

All the gifts are prepared in unmarked carton boxes. The good news is that nobody is getting the same gift, so the names can be added on when wrapping up had finished. The box Freddie hands Roger now is ironically his own present. Freddie had found a pair of sparkling pink converse in the shopping district. It cost him an arm and a leg, but he knows Roger will love it. 

Roger takes it and unsuspectingly  
begins to wrap the red and white paper around the box. 

Freddie waits for him to cut off the piece he needs before he can start wrapping the box he is holding. The shape tells him its a large book, Brians gift. He watches Roger from the corner of his eye while they both work on their respective pieces. It is easy to fall into a haze while watching Roger fold and tape the corners neatly. Almost unexpectedly perfect. Freddie messes up his own gift by paying too much attention to Roger, who is already reaching across the table to finish it up with a bow. Freddie's eyes drift to the bandage again, he worries, but shifts his gaze to his own wrapping paper once more. 

He works in silence and feigns nonchalance when he murmurs, "So what's with your arm?" 

A moment of silence passes.

He lifts his chin to look at Roger. He is surprised to see the pink blush on his cheeks and the grin tugging dangerously on the corner of his lips. He fails to resist its muscle power, 

"What's that smile for?" 

"Nothing." 

"Don't lie to me." Freddie smirks, remembering hearing John leave the bed last night and two pairs of feet going down the stairs before Freddie fell back asleep. Two people. 

He doesn't know what he and John had been up to, but it hasn't done much damage other than the wrapping around Rogers arm. 

Freddie doesn't like being kept in the dark, but there are worst things to be kept from. 

"I'm not lying, I'm just- FREDDIE!" 

Freddie in the next moment wrestles Roger to the floor, careful not to let him fall backwards too hard, and presses his shoulders down to keep him flat.

Roger is giggling, cheeks dimpling and eyes shining. 

Freddie expects to be pushed away when Roger reaches out to him— but instead he sticks a strip of tape to his nose and in Freddie's momentary distraction he rolls them over. With a grunt and a huff, Roger is on top and Freddie knows he completely deserves it when bony fingers begin to dance over his sides underneath his shirt. 

Tickling Freddie into a spiral of smiles and giggles.

★☆★

"Ha—rk the herald-"

"Press the key on Herald, here." 

Brian wraps his hand around Rogers wrist and nudges it to the right key. Roger has a large smile on his face, his cheeks flush when Brian presses himself more firmly against him on the tiny piano stool. "Try again."

"Okay, so this note and..." Rogers eyes scan the sheet before him. He squints and leans in before his pinky finger presses lightly over the right key. " _This_ one."

Brian is watching Rogers hands intently, ready to interfere if necessary. 

"Ha—rk the Herald angels sing," Roger has to cross and stretch his other arm out to reach the higher keys. "Glo—ry to the new b... Hm."

"This one."

"Born King." 

Brian nods and reflects Rogers proud beam.  
"You're really getting it, come on next line."

Before today Roger hadn't so much as touched a piano. Between their old Christmas records he found a pile of sheet music and he brought it over to the other room, dragging Brian along and demanding he would teach him a couple of songs for Christmas eve. False notes and giggles led Freddie into the doorway to watch the two, completely oblivious to him. 

It is heart warming to see Roger openly happy and Brian so energetic.

He lingers against the doorpost, smiling at the couple. Amusement curling his own lips pleasantly and he wishes the moment never had to end.

Out of the blue, John comes to stand behind him and gives him a nudge. 

"Don't you take pity?" 

Freddie turns to him with a smile. He rocks onto his tiptoes to peck his lips, smiling. "I'm cozy here."

Roger messes up the second line again and Brian isn't being very effective by pushing Rogers wrist around. John chuckles and Freddie feels a calm warmth radiate from him that only appears around the holidays. "Go." John says, pushing Freddie towards the others.

"Hark the Ha— Hey."

Roger stops playing when Freddie approaches to look up at him.

Freddie smiles and wordlessly pulls Roger onto his feet. Then he motions for Roger to sit on his knees. Once he does, Freddie rests his palms on top of Rogers hands to guide his fingers across the keys on the keyboard. They begin careful and slow with Freddie taking the lead. Rogers brow is creased in concentration, Brian is smiling, watching them intently while John has left the room and returned with Brians photo camera to snap a shot. 

They continue to play until Freddie's hands are slightly hovering over Rogers. 

When Roger performs the whole song himself Freddie and Brian both lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek, Freddie's more lingering and sloppy. Brian shy and hesitant. Roger flushes under the praise and prompts for Freddie to teach him another one. Flipping the sheet to the next song. John turns on the heater in the corner of the room and brings the tray of cookies to keep them company. Freddie winks at John, who has taken to hanging onto the corner of the piano. The corner of Johns lip quirks, chewing on a cookie while humming along to Silent Night.

★☆★

Freddie has exactly twenty one minutes before the stalls opening hour. He jumps out of the bathroom, freshly showered and makes a b-line for the bedroom to kiss Brian on the cheek. 

"See you tonight my Love."

Brian scrunches his nose and rolls to his side. Freddie bites back a smile and wraps the blanket tightly over his sleeping frame. 

Another look around the room has Freddie pausing in front of the mirror. He loosens his tie so that it hangs more casual around his neck. When he gets to Kensington he changes into something more fashionable and fresh. Before the end of the work day he has to pick up his white collar and tie again, all to keep up his silly act.

A glance at his watch tells him he has 18 minutes now to get to work. The car drive alone is a good 15 if he doesn't hit traffic, which he will in central London.

Freddie tugs his shirt in his pants while he makes his way down the stairs.

Oscar follows him hot on his heels. Taking each step the same time Freddie does. Forgoing breakfast in regards to his haste, once Freddie makes it to the bottom he slips on his loafers by the door and scrambles for his keys in the coat he wore yesterday. Freddie reaches for the front door and turns the knob, when a sudden high pitched meow makes him freeze, Freddie instantly recognizes it as Oscars as it echoes through the ground floor. Followed by the screeches of the curtain railing being pulled aside too fast and the Christmas tree jiggling. 

His first thought goes to Oscar hanging off the curtains with his claws and falling into the pine tree, like last year, but when Freddie pushes himself away from the front door and into the living room he finds a scene he did not expect.

"Roger?"

The sound of Freddie's voice made Roger jolt further into the corner of the room. He has made himself as small as possible, knees to his chest, arms over his head. He is shaking violently. Face pale as a sheet.

Freddie falls to his knees, heart pounding. Oscar has hidden himself under the couch. 

He reaches carefully for Roger without making an attempt to touch him. He keeps his head ducked so he doesn't tower over Roger— overtaken with hyperventilating fear. 

"What happened?" Freddie asks quietly. Unsure if Roger can hear him with his arms over his ears and his gasping breaths. "Roger—"

Teary eyes level to the floor. Roger rocks, back and forth. Like a neglected child. 

"They found me. They found us— we aren't safe. They found us."

Freddie's throat closes up. The half open curtain and unlocked backdoor suddenly make him feel severely uneasy too. He stays calm for the both of them, eyes carefully hard. 

"Who? What did you see?"

Roger hiccups, face red. "The car. I saw his car."

"Richards?"

"Andreis. He— he manages the prostitutes. It's the business car. They're coming to kill us, Freddie. I can't. I don't want to go back. I don't—"

Freddie bolts to his feet. His mind goes a mile per hour.

John is out there, at work. Are there two cars? Is one following him too? How will he reach Johns clients place to tell him the house is being surveillanced by Richard?

He thinks about the windows to close and doors to barricade. He hopes none of the cats are outside. They wouldn't usually in the snow, but—

"The car, what does it look like?"

He is whispering now, assuming that they might be listening. Roger takes a heaving breath. "It's Green. A Ford Consul. Its old and beaten and right across the street— I saw him inside. He was looking straight at the house. How long have they been here? They have been watching. They know I'm here. They're watching. What are they going to do with me Freddie? I don't want to find out. I don't want to—"

Freddie looks over his shoulder once to give him an encouraging nod, whilst crawling over to the window and peek over the sill. 

He sits on his knees and carefully stretches his neck out to take a peak between the slits in the curtains. He squints his eyes against the sun catching in the snow. For a long moment he sees nothing but bright gold. His heart is beating rapidly against his chest and the only sound in the room is Rogers panicked mumbling.

When the world settles moments later, Freddie blinks and finds himself staring at the empty snow covered street. 

He strains his neck further to look around the corner and in the distance, but the only car he spots is the old mini-cooper the lady next door owns and his own car amongst the whitened asphalt. 

"I don't want to go back. I don't want to. I'll die. I can't—"

"Roger?" 

Freddie's heart sinks into his gut. Unsettled. He turns his head to face him. He keeps his face calmly neutral, as his years as a therapist have taught him. 

Roger has a haze over his eyes. Freddie can't read them behind the mist of tears. "I-is he in there? Anyone with him?" 

Freddie slinks back to the floor. Maintaining strict eye contact.

"There is no car, Roger." 

The way Rogers eyes dart between the window and the direction of the hallway is alarming. "It was there." He mutters. "It was there. I saw it. It was across the street, waiting for me." 

Freddie hugs him close and doesn't say anything about how dilated his pupils are. 

Roger lets himself be pulled into Freddie's lap while he is openly sobbing. Freddie rests his chin on his head, trying to sway him into sensibility. 

"You're okay, come here. Come on."

"Don't leave." He weeps. "Please don't leave. I can't. He's outside he's going to hurt you. Please I can't lose you Freddie. J-John is in danger. We are all in danger." 

"Oh darling, please." Desperate tears rapidly fill his own eyes. "Please don't cry. I cry if you cry."

Roger continues to blabber wetly. Rubbing his face onto Freddie's white collar. "I don't want him to hurt you. I saw the car. It was there, y- you have to believe me. You have to. We can't leave the house. It's too dangerous. They know where we are."

He wraps Roger into his arms a little tighter, giving him a firm squeeze. 

Freddie lets his eyes drift up to the window and swallows thickly. Not once does he loosen his grip or stop rocking Roger in his arms while the daunting shadow falls over the two of them. 

Maybe, Freddie fears, John is right.

★☆★

There are several causes for the pupils to dilate. The most common one is for the eyes to adjust to the dark. The living room had been bright with Christmas decoration and sunlight, Freddie knows that is not it.

The second more plausible reason why Rogers eyes were widened was because of fear and alertness. 

If a person is scared, like Roger, their senses sharpen and the pupils dilate.

Freddie's heart is beating rapidly again. He is rummaging through the cabinets in the bathroom, but he can't find them. Brians medication.

That leaves one last reason for wide pupils, which is drugs. 

He shoves another drawer closed. Feeling frustrated and stupid. He had gone to check Brians bedside drawer and even the rubbish bin. To no avail. Wherever Brians orange tube of medication has gone, it has been misplaced. He debates going into Rogers room to search for it there, but—

"Hey."

Freddie jumps, hand clutching his heart reflexively. "Jesus Christ— John. You're home early."

"The roads will be blocked tonight. I was sent home unless there's an emergency, family without gas or something." He leans in the doorway with a calculated expression. Freddie hasn't gotten his heaving chest or redness under control yet. He barely recognizes his disheveled self in the mirror over the sink. John must have noticed too. "What's going on?"

"Where are Brians pills?" 

John raises his brow. "Why?"

Freddie clenches his jaw. After two hours of pulling the bathroom apart his patience had grown thin. "Because."

"Because?" John pushes. 

"Because I think Roger might be taking them—" John doesn't flinch at the word. Doesn't seem sad or disappointed. He tips his chin and waits. Freddie's eyes widen. "You knew."

John nods stiffly, at least he had the decency to look slightly regretful. "I hid them, told Brian I hid them under the bed because the bathroom was too humid or whatever."

Freddie pushes away from the sink to step closer to John. 

He doesn't understand, he never does when John decides to keep him in the dark about things. 

They were supposed to be helping Roger get better. How long has John known? Why hasn't he kicked Roger out like Freddie had suspected he would? Why didn't he think it was important to share the truth with the rest of them?

Freddie swallows all the questions down. Keeping his mind on track. 

"Why didn't you tell me you suspecting him—"

"I didn't suspect it." John interjects calmly. "He admitted to it when I confronted him, told me he wouldn't do it anymore."

Fuck.

"He must still be taking them, maybe he made a secret stash somewhere before you took them away." Freddie mumbles, stroking his chin thoughtfully. 

Johns brow is creased when their eyes meet again. His lips are pressed in a thin line 

"He promised me he would stop."

"Yes but..."

"But?" John asks, tightly. The strain in his voice is nothing short from betrayal. 

Freddie doesn't know what happened between them during their evening together all those days ago, but John had began to put faith in Roger. Trust and respect. Freddie reaches for his hands, carefully he strokes his thumbs over the back of Johns hands. He stays quiet, Freddie holds his hands lightly in his and wants to make clear to him that decisions Roger makes in order to get drugs cannot be taken personal. 

"His addiction can overwhelm reason... Today he saw a car on the street, belonging to one of Richards minions. He swore he saw it, he's been in a state of panic since."

"Did _you_ see it?"

"No." Freddie swallows. He knows exactly where this is headed. 

John shakes his head, squeezing their hands. "Brians medication causes hallucinations. You know that is it, but I hid it and when he said he wouldn't take it again I believed him. You know..." He twists his head to the door, painfully aware it's open and their voices can carry down the stairs. "What if it's not the drugs? What if it is all in his mind? That's a bigger problem, he might be psychotic."

"Don't use that word lightly."

"I'm not." John insists. Voice clipped with seriousness. 

Freddie hates it but he knows it is true, if the drugs aren't what is driving Roger up the wall, Freddie has no idea where to begin fixing him. 

"And what if it's real?" He asks, because everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.  
Especially Roger. "What if the car was there?"

"In the store? On the high street? On the way to the supermarket? He barricades his bedroom door and has night terrors." John whisper yells. Their voices have grown nearly silent in their argument because of noises down the stairs. "It's a fabrication of his mind."

"You don't know that—"

He and John both jump Brian springs into the room, face tight and rubbing his arm. "Roger is crying and doesn't want me to touch him."

"Are you okay?" 

The shock of Brians sudden appearance washes away fast. John turns to face him too. Also noticing he pained expression on his face while tenderly stroking his arm. 

"Yes he just flinched away, is all. A slight push." 

Brian stumbles over his words in his haste to explain. Freddie makes eye contact with John, John throws his arms up in the air in thinly veiled fear. 

"This is what I mean. We don't know how to deal with this. We coddle him and let him believe things that aren't real."

"What?" Brian asks, brows knit together. John turns to elaborate. 

"He saw a car outside the window. He thinks it was one of the gang members, but when Freddie came it was gone."

The more he thinks about it, the more it seems plausible. Richard has done things much more psychologically damaging to Roger. Deliberately inflicting mental discipline on him to keep under control and in check to his disposal. Freddie's stomach churns and he hates how he assumed Roger was seeing things rather than believing the possibility the car might have driven off. 

"Maybe we should call the police?" He mumbles, but John stops him before he can take a step out of line. 

"They will arrest him, homosexuality and prostitution."

"Doesn't his PTSD trigger hallucinations?" 

Brians voice is small and careful. Freddie nods, yes. But he expected from Brian at least the littlest bits of doubt this wasn't made up in his mind.

"Are you saying you don't believe him either?" 

"I'm saying—" Brian sighs, it's been a while since Freddie has heard his uptight argumentative voice. "We are providing him a roof over his head, bring him food- we feed into these fantasies, we don't condone it or tell him its idiocy—" 

"We are enabling him, Fred." John silences Brian with a sharp look at Freddie. His voice wavers and his eyes show how little comfort he gets from his own words. "He won't get better like this."

Freddie squares his shoulders, giving him  
A long tired look. "What do you suggest?" 

"Rehab." 

★☆★

That night after dinner, Roger had leaned over and quietly asked Freddie if he could sleep in his room tonight. He had witnessed seeing Roger in a permanent state of panic for most of the day, Freddie complied with an easy smile.

"I'm sorry." 

After barricading the door with the wooden stool Roger crawls onto the bed with a sheepish frown. Freddie pulls the duvet back and opens his arm for him. Roger quietly curls himself against his side, Freddie pulls him flush against him, breathing in the scent of Johns shampoo in his hair. 

It has been half a day since the incident happened downstairs. Roger insisted Freddie could not go to work or outside at all for that matter.

He still isn't back to being his normal self. Freddie trails a finger over Rogers bare shoulder. His face is carefully hidden in Freddie's chest. His fragility leaves Freddie uncertain of now much he understands Roger. Somewhere he had lost track of what was reality and what he wanted to see himself. He liked seeing Roger acclimate to living within their household, he let himself believe Roger could apply the same to the outside world. 

The fright this afternoon says otherwise.

He has been taking Brians medication during his stay here. Freddie hadn't suspected him. He didn't want to. 

Roger tightens his arm around Freddie. The silence makes him uncertain.

Freddie blinks his eyes open. The last thing Roger said was an apology, perhaps for his paranoia. Perhaps for much more than that. Freddie sighs, pushing a strand of sandy dark blond hair behind Rogers ear. 

"Don't be."

"I told you I'm going crazy." Roger mumbles. The shame in his voice is mixed with conviction. "I saw what I saw, it was real." A pause. "To me it was."

Freddie would hate for Roger to think he does trust him. 

"I believe you."

"John doesn't."

Roger melts against him with a heavy sigh, Freddie stares up the ceiling in his old office. "He is just worried about you." 

They are both quiet for a long moment. Freddie would have thought Roger had fallen asleep if it wasn't for the tension in his shoulders. He is wearing one of Brians old tank tops. It hangs off his frame loosely for sleep. Freddie lets his fingers dance over his shoulder blade. Tracing the jutting bones while he listens to the snow thumping quietly against the window. 

Roger turns his face further into Freddie's neck. He can feel Rogers lashes flutter against his skin. 

"Don't leave me." He whispers. "I feel like I'm suffocating myself with those things. I feel them. I see them. My dreams are reality but when I wake up its not. But with the car, I can't seem to snap out of it." Roger pushes himself up on Freddie's chest. Freddie's arms pool around his slim waist. "It was there Fred, they're following us and none of us are safe."

Even in the dark Freddie can see the fear in his fiercely blue eyes. 

He cringes and pulls Roger back against him. 

"Shh..." He makes an effort not to comment on the topic Roger is trying to raise. Guilt is already gnawing at Freddie for considering Rogers panic over the car to be an illusion. He presses Roger tightly against him. Feeling sorry for both of them. "Don't worry, okay."

Roger lets out a shuddering breath. "You wouldn't say that if you knew what they would do to me." 

"They won't get you, ever. I'm here. I won't let anyone hurt you while you're with me."

"Don't leave me then."

Blue eyes peer up at him. Freddie even in his state of deep gutted guilt manages a small encouraging smile. He brushes his thumb over Rogers cheek, puffy from crying all afternoon. 

"Not in a million years."

"I don't want to keep running, being send away, made to make somewhere my new home. I want to stay." Roger says. Freddie's eyes widen. 

"With us?"

"I can find a job, I can help more around the house. I can make myself useful and—" 

"Do you really want that?" Freddie interrupts.  
"To stay with us?"

"Yes," He answers breathlessly. "I feel so at home."

Freddie's throat feels tight. He doesn't want Roger to see him cry when he is already doing poorly. He hugs Roger insistently against his chest, making him stay down and mold their bodies into one form on the old pull out couch. Freddie presses his lips to Rogers forehead. Smoothening it out. 

"You are home."

★☆★

"What's going on?"

"Sit down Roger, we need to talk." 

Roger eyes John uneasily. The three of them are all seated in the living rook, fully dressed and stiff. Rogers shoes are left by the foot of the couch and his coat clutched in Freddie's arms, ready to be handed it over. 

He sits down. The subtle change in his expression doesn't go unnoticed by any of them.

Freddie is the first his eyes search for. His brow creases with concern. 

"Are you sending me away?" 

Freddie clears his throat, he looks at John to answer, who is looking at him to do the same. Brian keeps himself completely quiet in the corner. Freddie frowns and gets to his feet. "We have called the Bethlem Royal hospital and they have a place for you in their rehabilitation ward." 

Rogers face goes slack. All the muscles lose tension in the initial shock. He stares at Freddie, frightened. 

One second later, Roger crumbles. 

Freddie had all night to prepare himself for this. Still Rogers reaction breaks his heart. 

Fear overtakes his features. He curls in on himself. Glueing himself to the back of the couch in an effort to show he will not be removed. He presses his palms to his eyes, suppresses the tears already falling down his face. 

"You're forcing me away. No. _No_. Please." He whispers. "Don't send me away. I'll be good. I'll do better. Please. Don't send me away."

Brian is looking at him. Expression lost. Freddie turns to John. 

Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all—

John gets up as well and takes Rogers coat from Freddie's iron grip. He comes to stand by the couch opposite of Roger to lay a hand on his trembling shoulder. 

"When you have finished the program you are welcome here again. Okay?"

John holds the coat out to him. He hoods it by the collar so that Roger could easily slid inside. But instead of complying, Roger curls himself further into the corner of the couch, face hidden in his knees. 

He struggles when John pulls on his ankle to unhuddle him. Roger flinches and shakes his head violently. 

"Please. I'll do anything. Don't kick me out. Please." 

"Roger," John says in a stern controlled voice. "Enough of that. Put on your shoes and coat or we are leaving without them."

"I don't want to—"

" _Fine_." 

It is like a knife is punched deep in his gut when Roger lets out a shrill cry and John tugs him towards the door. Brian and Freddie follow him wordlessly not attempting to interfere even when Roger scrambles. Grasping for doorposts and other furniture on his way out. John relentlessly gets him out of the front door and into the car, his two boyfriends trailing behind him with their heads bowed. Freddie gets the perfect view of Rogers socked feet in the snow. 

Brian opens the door and John puts Roger inside.

The fight is beginning to be replaced by hopelessness. Roger is in the back, crying in his hands. Hysterical. Loudly asking why.

John closes the door after making sure Rogers feet were both on board, he turns to his boyfriends and the expression on his face is washed out and pale with trouble.

Brian is hugging himself with his arms. Eyes misty. "Are we still sure about this? 

"Yes." John says in the cold. His words forming white clouds in the winter air. 

Without another word of comfort, John turns around and reaches for the drivers door. In the spur of the moment Freddie reaches for John and tugs his arm back. He twists his neck, eyes hard again. "We need to get this over with, Fred. It was hard enough to get him a place as it was."

Yes. Apparently over the holidays many people attempt to try to admit their family members to rehabilitation centers. John had to make several phone calls before they found a place that could take Roger on such a short notice. 

Freddie doesn't loosen his grip on Johns coat. He breathes heavily and against his better judgement he pulls John away from the door.

"I think I should take him." 

John furrows his brow. "I don't know if I can trust you to go through with this." 

"I have to do this." Freddie takes the keys from Johns grip. He smiles wryly. "He needs it. He needs me."'

John takes a glance at Roger in the back of the car, still crying and rambling to himself both out of fear of being outside the house and what is awaiting him once he is admitted to the hospital. Johns heavy gaze falls back on Freddie, his shoulders deflate and he steps away from the door for him. 

"Take him there, and come home."

"Okay."

They don't share a kiss, but Freddie glances over at Brian to send him a reassuring quirk of his lips. "It will be fine." He tells his hopelessly sad boyfriend. Brian never took easy to goodbyes or seeing Roger suffer. "This is the right thing to do." 

"I know."

Freddie waits for John to wrap his arm around Brian before he gets into the car. Its Johns, but Freddie doesn't have a hard time adjusting the seat and changing the radio station. He pulls out of the neighborhood as quickly as the speed limit allows. He can see John and Brian in the rearview mirror. They don't wave and Roger doesn't look.

Roger—

Freddie adjusts the mirror to look at him. He isn't wearing his seatbelt or sitting in the appropriate position. Roger is trying to make himself as small as possible. He is cold and scared. Freddie turns the radio down just enough to hear his hyperventilating breaths. Otherwise his crying had turned silent. 

"There is a blanket under the passenger seat if you want it?" Freddie asks. "I don't want you to be cold." 

Roger closes his eyes and sniffles. 

"I thought you said I could stay with you. Last night, you said I was at home."

"I did say that." Freddie says firmly. "I meant it."

Roger pushes himself upright. Looking straight at Freddie through the mirror above the dashboard. "Then please don't send me away. I can't be away from you and Brian and John. I can't go back to living on the streets. Or with Richard. I can't do this."

"Roger. We don't know how to help you." 

As true as it was, it hurts to say. Rogers face crumbles when the words have left Freddie's mouth. Freddie is barely watching the road anymore. 

"I don't want to do this. I can't go, Fred. You can't send me away, please I'll be good. If you take me back home I'll be good for you." His voice turns low and dark. He grips the leather back of the drivers seat between his hands. Bile crawls up Freddie's throat at the suggestion. "I swear. I'll do anything Freddie. Anything, but please don't send me away."

Freddie shifts and takes a turn to avoid traffic. Maybe he should have let John do this after all.

"I don't want such things, Roger. You know what I want? What John wants? Brian?" 

Roger sniffles, but doesn't answer.

"We want you to get better." 

"I cannot get better without you. I need you. I've only ever changed because of you. Else I'd still be with Richard. I'd be dead." Roger clasps his hands into an intertwined prayer position. Tears are streaming down his sickly pale face. "You have helped me so much. A-and I shouldn't have panicked over the car. I can learn to control myself and my dreams and everything will improve. I always become better when I'm with you."

Freddie catches his eye. Roger presses his lips together regretfully.

Taking another left and the hospital will soon come in sight. Only a few minutes away from their home. He lets the car roll more slowly now and he is beginning to realize what he is putting on Roger. It is two days before Christmas and they were supposed to spend it together, Rogers first time since he was a small child. They have a present for him under the tree and he practiced five Christmas songs to play for them on the piano. 

Freddie feels bad for holding him last night until he fell asleep. Luring Roger into a sense of security. 

The guilt he feels must double as betrayal to Roger. 

"If I could help you get rid of all the pain inflected on you, I would." He says quietly. "This is the only way I know how." 

With those final words they stay quiet. Rogers breath catches in his throat when they eventually stop in front of the grey concrete hospital building. Freddie parks the car and waits for Roger to step out of the car after him. He managed to stop crying in the last few minutes, but it doesn't erase the evidence that he had cried. His face is red and puffy and he is poorly dressed in his pajamas without his shoes. 

It is a shameful walk to the clear glass hospital doors. Roger is walking as slowly as humanly possible and Freddie refrains from touching him. His hand hovers behind his back in case he deicides to bolt. 

"I don't want to go."

"I know." Freddie murmurs. They walk inside and are met with a creamy beige floor and a reception desk. There are no people waiting in line and all the room contains is closed metalic doors and waiting chairs. Freddie can't say he finds the atmosphere appealing. Then again, it is a drug rehabilitation ward. 

Before they step up to reception, Roger pauses and firmly presses himself against Freddie. Shaking his head. "No. Freddie. Take me home."

"I promise you," Freddie breathes. "I promise that when you're done here that we will be waiting for you to return."

It isn't exactly what Roger wanted to hear, but it isn't destructive either.

The blond lets his hands rest over his face, hiding his lips and putting all focus on his deeply frightened eyes. Freddie waits no longer. He wraps an arm around Rogers shoulder and drags him with his socked feet on the slippery floor towards reception.

The man behind the protective glass smiles at them. Freddie wonders how often he sees scenes such as this on a daily basis. 

"How can I help you today gentlemen?"

Freddie gives him a tight smile. "I've come to admit Roger. Roger Taylor." 

A list with names is pulled from the corner of the receptionists desk. The man scans down and nods when he indeed finds Rogers name under the patient list. 

"Very well."

He pulls out a form, a washed out blue color. Rogers name is written on it in bold typewriter lettering, alongside Freddie's name and phone number.

The receptionist slides the form and a pen over to Roger through the small opening in the glass cubicle. 

"You have to sign yourself in."

Roger looks at the square box on the form that says 'signature', then he looks at Freddie. 

"I want to go home."

Freddie hands him the pen. Eyes unblinking and serious. "Not right now." 

As if the last ounce of hope has left him, Rogers shoulders slump and he crosses an X in the signature box. Dropping the pen back on the desk without looking at Freddie anymore. While Freddie had anticipated that Roger would be sad and angry at them for making him do this, but it is still gut wrenching to watch Roger being escorted away from the reception by a nurse with a kind smile and purple uniform. Roger goes with her without a fight, head bowed and arms slack.

He makes no attempt to say goodbye. The words die in Freddie's throat and before he manages to bring them out Roger is brought through two heavy metal doors and disappears out of sight. 

Freddie closes his eyes and blinking away the tears he had spared Roger. 

★☆★  
_  
"Mummy?"_

_The way to their house is to the left, not to the right. Roger frowns, suddenly realizing how tight the grip of her hand is on his arm. They walk to school and back every day. There is no reason for her to drag him along._

_She looks down at him, her face set with worry. She gives him a tight smile. "Yes, sweetheart?"_

_"Where are we going?"_

_"Grandmas." She says, to which Roger frowns. "You like it at Grans house, right?"_

_Roger nods once. He does, but he can tell something is wrong. Why are they walking? Isn't grandmas house a million miles away? Why is his mother holding him so tight and scanning the streets as if someone was following them?_

_"Mummy..." He begins again. She suppresses a sigh. "Did I do something wrong?"_

_They are soon approaching neighborhood Roger had never walked in before. He stands a little closer against her body, feeling uncertain._

_"No, Baby. I—"_

_She eyes the streets again. It's quiet and there aren't many cars driving during the mid afternoon._

_Suddenly they stop. Roger halts when Winnifred drops into a crouch to look him right in the eye. She holds both his arms with a very serious look in her eyes. Roger knows to keep quiet and alert. He doesn't like it when his mother loses the kind smile she usually wears around him._

_"I need you to listen to me very carefully now, Roger. Listen well."_

_"Okay." He says quietly, earning a brief kiss on the nose._

_"We are not going home. You know what papa has been doing? Hurting you? We cannot stop him, so we have to go away without telling him, so he can't find us."_

_The sudden urge to cry overwhelms Roger. What his mother is saying makes sense, but there is a lot of change. A lot of why's and how's. That are going unanswered._

_She rubs his shoulders to keep his tears at bay, she smiles a little more genuine now._

_"I did not tell him, he won't find out until we are already at grandmas house. We will figure out what to do from there. She always knows what to do, right?" Roger nods. "Exactly. The important thing is that nobody will ever touch you like that again. No more pain, okay? I will protect you. No going back."_

_Roger sniffles. His vision blurs with unshed tears. "Okay, mum."_

_"Come here."_

_Roger lets himself be wrapped in her arms. He is tired. Last night he couldn't sleep after the discipline he had received for dropping a glass onto the floor. His eyes feel heavy and his body is sore when he melts into his mothers arms._

_She doesn't push him away or make him get to his own feet. She instead tightens her arms around him more firmly so he can wrap his legs around her waist. Winnifred pushes herself into a standing position and carries Roger in her arms._

_He sighs, closing his eyes against her shoulder while she begins to walk in the direction of grandmothers house._

_While she walks she strokes his back and kisses his forehead._

_Her tenderness makes him forget the situation he is in now. He rubs his nose against her neck and allows himself to be rocked to sleep. They will go to grandmother and find a new home, she said and his mother had never broken a promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun DUUUUUUN!!!!! Please leave a comment if you liked it☺️❤️ We are getting into the third part of the story now hehehe.
> 
> Also I will be replying to comments on the previous chapter, sorry I have been slow. I appreciate you guys so fucking much


	15. Of Isolation and Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger is brought to the Drugs Dependency Unit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A good evening for you all! Oh my goodness I really want to say this chapter speaks on personal levels of isolation and quarantine hahaha
> 
> Have a good one lovies

Day one was the longest. 

Nurse Carina Young explains that the Drug Dependency Unit has two wards. One locked and one open. 

The door from the reception leads into a long hallway without any wallpaper or a lick of paint. The end the corridor splits into two equally grey metal doors. Each has a sign above the entrance. 'Ward One' and 'Ward Two'.

Carina reaches for the keys hooked to her trousers. She opens the door to ward one and steps back to let Roger slip in first.

He wraps his arms around himself. The corridor is cold and he feels strangely numb.

It's as if he is living a lucid dream. He watches himself move about as an unknown third person in the room. The out of body experience twits his stomach into knots and his socked feet slide over the slippery floors. 

"The hard drugs ward is locked." Carina explains. "That means that until you're detoxicated, you will not be leaving the ward."

If it wasn't for her hand on his shoulder he would have bumped against the next set of doors. 

She reaches for her keys again. Roger glances sideways at her, but his vision is blurred. 

Roger had not been asked what drugs he has taken, but he is confidently brought to the hard drugs section. He guesses John or Freddie had filled the hospital in when they called admit him. It is belittling. They don't know Rogers drug history, not even Freddie. They don't know how he takes Brians medication. They wouldn't have known if he took anything else too. He pushes the thoughts down with a sharp inhale. 

Roger is ushered through the heavy metal doors before he can dwell too much on the betrayal. If he wasn't so numb he would be scared. If he wasn't scared he would understand anger boiling the blood under his skin. 

"Careful there." Carina says when he lingers in the doorway. 

She only lets them fall closed when he safely steps into the ward. The metal doors fall shut behind him with a groan and audible click. Nobody is leaving, but to Rogers relief, nobody is coming in either. 

"Okay, Roger is your name right?"

Carina stops walking. Roger nods once and restrains himself from looking around the narrow, grey, windowless room. 

The cold of the floor seeps into the soles of his feet. It runs up his calves to his thighs up to his fingertips.

"You are now in ward one of the DDU. The rules are simple, you cannot go anywhere without permission and you will he under strict surveillance. You'll get a room with all your necessities, we will bring you meals and books to read in your spare time. On Sundays we got a service if you wish to attend it. Otherwise the only reason for you to be out of your room will be for medical reasons." Carina carefully scans his face while she talks. Her hands are folded over her stomach and her lips move with practiced ease. Roger wonders how many people she has given this talk before. He wonders if they had a delayed reaction like him. He isn't high, but he feels like it. The world moves in slow motion but Carinas lips smack up and down too fast for him to catch on. "This is not permanent, so don't panic. This is only until you have completely detoxified, then you will be send to the open ward."

Roger has been up and down cold turkey road. This won't be the first time or the worst time. 

"Roger, is that understood?"

He doesn't recognize his own voice when he croaks out a yes. Hugging his body tighter when Carina leads him into the only white colored door in the ward. 

It brings him into a doctors office and examination room with a bed, a desk, a sink and a scale. 

Carina doesn't follow him inside. Roger turns to frown at her, but she isn't phased. 

"Strip off your clothes and wait for the doctor to come in." 

The door closes with a thud. Roger reaches out to try the handle, but it doesn't open without a key. He turns back to the room and suddenly feels dizzy with the realization he is actually un a rehabilitation clinic. The walls of the examination room are a sickly grey-green and the floors a solid off white. His stomach rolls. 

There are no windows in this room either. There is another door, but the handle doesn't turn without a key. If that wasn't bad enough Roger has the daunting suspicion the walls are closing in on him. The left wall moves closer to the right and the world tilts sideways. Rogers hands go to his chest and clutches his shirt to ground himself. He hadn't realized he was hyperventilating, not until he was bend over and vomiting on the floor, the color matching the walls. 

Acid burns in his throat. Tears spring in the corners of his his eyes.

 _Shit_.

Roger harshly rubs at his face in frustration. 

He knows the walls aren't moving and the world isn't tilting. _He_ is. 

The floor is cool under his palms. Roger bows over the pool of vomit and gags over the nauseating smell. His arms shake and he waits for the world to stop spinning before he attempts to get to his feet again. 

"Oh dear."

Two broad hands clasp his shoulders and Roger is hauled to his feet.

His eyes are glued to the sick on the floor, even while he is escorted onto the examination table and made to sit up. His feet dangle off the edge and the paper under his ass crinkles with every tremor coursing through his weave of muscles. 

"Here," the doctor thrusts a bin in his arms. "If you feel sick again, use it."

Roger clamps onto the cool metal. He rests his chin on the edge, feeling dangerously close to throwing his guts up again while he watches the doctor cover his vomit on the floor with paper towels. 

It is the worst first impression he's ever made. That says something.

The doctor finishes the cleanup by washing his hands and drying them thoroughly. He is a tall man with white hair and tiny glasses perched on his nose. He clasps his hands and approaches Roger again with an almost smile. 

"I have to perform a physical examination on you today. Nothing invasive, just the basics."

Roger nods, the numbness returns when the panic subdues. He prefers it. Feeling nothing but hollow and dull. 

"I do need you to strip down to your underwear. Can you manage to do that yourself?"

After receiving a nod from Roger, the doctor takes a step back to prepare the examination, l Roger suspects he does to give him space. He sets the bin aside and shimmies to his feet. First he throws Johns shirt off his back and then he unbuttons the trousers. Underneath he wears a tank-top, which he discards too. He folds them carefully on the examination table. He is left to stand in his underwear and socks. 

It usually doesn't bother him when people see his scars. It is clients and occasionally Freddie who comment on the skin.

Roger can't remember the last time a medical professional had looked at the permanently damaged skin. He can't help but feel self conscious about the wounds he had bandaged personally in the past, his pocked out ribs and still healing tattoo. 

He stands against the bed and hugs his waist once more. Hiding the worst of his past. 

"Any medical conditions I need to know of?" The doctor asks.

Roger shrugs. "Dunno."

"You don't know."

"No." Roger says instead. More firm this time so he wouldn't be asked again.

The doctor hums. Roger watches while he takes his clothing away from him. 

"Do you have anything on you?" 

"Left pocket." Roger murmurs. 

His trouser pockets are flipped inside out. He finds the little pouch of pills and confiscates it, thanking him for his honesty. His clothes disappear in a plastic bag with his name on it. If he ever gets out it will be given back to him. 

"Um... can I keep my socks?"

The doctor looks at him over the rim of his glasses, a frown on his face. He makes Roger take them off first so he can flip them inside out. When it is certain he isn't smuggling drugs Roger is allowed to keep Freddie's pink cat patterned socks on his cold toes. 

His old clothes are placed by the second door for another member of staff to store away. Roger is given a soft looking pair of grey pajamas with socks, underwear and a tie for his hair. He puts the socks on underneath Freddie's and forgoes the new underwear altogether. More comfortable in his own.

When the doctor is ready to start the examination Roger finishes tying his hair in a loose bun. 

The doctor is holding a cup, frowning. 

Roger eyes it suspiciously, and indeed, he is asked to pee in the tiny plastic beaker for drug testing. He hates it. But the doctor doesn't linger on the uncomfortable scrunch of Rogers face. He still can't believe this is truly happening to him. A cold shiver runs down his spine when the doctor listens to his heart. It is beating rapidly against his ribcage. The doctor makes no comment until Roger is on the scale and he is told he is severely underweight. 

Rogers first instinct is to apologize, but he refrains from doing so.

The doctor moves him against the wall in order to note down his height too. Everything is neatly reported on a white form with Rogers name on it. He half suspects to be questioned next, but he isn't. After the doctor finishes his report and folds it on the corner of his desk, nurse Carina returns to the door. Apparently to escort him to his room. 

"This way Roger."

He doesn't say goodbye to the nameless doctor. He lets Carinas easy smile guide him out of the sick colored room. 

She leads the way, only two paces in front of him. 

They follow down the corridor. Roger only counts a total of 10 doors. Each of them are made of a heavy grey material and have a nametag at the top. He only then notices the small space engineered in the door presumably to let staff give food to patients without having step inside. 

"Okay this is you, Roger." 

Carina uses her set of keys to unlock the pad on the door. It screeches when she finally pushes it wide enough for Roger to slide in. Again, she doesn't follow. 

He turns to face her. All blood has drained from his face. Uncertainty makes him recoil.

"What now?" He asks. Voice quiet. 

Her purple uniform is a good distraction. Roger looks at the point between her elbow and her stomach, eyes down to spare himself the look of pity he knows she must have on her face. Carina hums. "You will go inside, at 5 pm we will bring you your dinner. Tomorrow you will get breakfast at 8 and lunch at 12. Snacks and books will also be given in between meal times. There is a button in your room you can use in case of an emergency."

Roger says nothing. He admittedly feels more grounded with the schedule forming in his head. 

Carina gives him a calculated smile. "Do you need anything else?"

He really wants to go home. But he can't bring himself to say those exact words to the stranger opposite of him. 

So Roger shakes his head and with a muttered goodbye, Carina closes the door and it locks automatically upon impact. 

"Oh God."

Roger covers his face with his hands and looks around the four walled-square room from between his fingers. 

There is one sink and a bed with a thin mattress and even thinner paper like blanket on top. There are no windows. There is a light switch to operate the one light bulb.

The sink doesn't have a mirror, but he is give a toothbrush, toothpaste, washcloth and a comb. 

He ignores the tiny toilet in the corner for as long as he can. 

While the room is terribly small, Roger surprisingly still doesn't feel panicked. He is most of all scared and disappointed. He wonders how long they had planned to send him here. If they meant that he could come back, or that it was another lie to keep him from lashing out or running before he was admitted. Roger has no idea what he could do when the hospital releases him and there is nobody to pick him up. 

He doesn't want to go back to Richard. He had said goodbye to his days of prostitution. 

Now he is learning he can't trust on Freddie either. Leaving him stuck somewhere in the middle, which would mean the streets or worse.

Roger lays down on the bed and curls his knees to his chest. His door is locked and for now he feels safe with his own thoughts, still painfully aware this situation is anything but permanent. He traces his fingers over the itching lines skin of his tattoo. He thinks about Johns hands on his arm and his lips on his mouth. 

★☆★

Day two Roger spends the 24 uncomfortable hours sleeping on his side, feeling unwelcome in his own skin. His body tissue is too bound too tight over his bones. His brain seems to physically push against the thick lining of his skull. 

At 8 am sharp, he is woken up by the breakfast bell and the first tray of food being shoved through the compartment in the door.

He only gets up to use the metal toilet in far the corner of the room when his bladder becomes so full the swell pushes against the waistband of his sweats. His ribs dig into the springs of his mattress and his pillow only has a handful of feathers left inside, causing an unforgiving twinge in his neck. His time in Freddie, John and Brians house has spoiled him. This low ceiling room is a five-star hotel compared to Richards mattress lined apartment. 

Three times during the day purple dressed nurses take away the untouched food treys without exchanging a word. It is the only indication of the time. 

Roger drifts in and out of sleep whenever he can. The seam between reality and fantasy rips and Roger dreams of brown eyes, black finger nails and toothy smiles. 

Dreams morph into nightmares. They always end with Freddie's hands on his shoulders, holding him firm and pushing him away and Roger waking up in the grey room. Betrayed and alone. 

★☆★

Withdrawal sets in on day three.

While heroin is Rogers drug, Brians pills had been worthy substitutes to calm his nerves and ground him in his vastly changed world.

It was a necessary transition to sobriety, he had told himself. From a hard drug to pharmacy drug to going clean.

Painkillers are child play for his standard. 

After popping and sometimes crushing snd snorting them Roger still had the ability to work around the house, do his chores and make conversation. Heroin never failed to floor him. Stop him dead in tracks each time the cold rush interchanged to something warm and flushed, relaxing each muscle under his skin, sending him in an eternity of euphoria. 

Brians pills fall in pale comparison to heroin injections. 

Therefor Roger is surprised when he wakes up with a thin layer of sweat over his entire body and an awful odor coming from his drenched clothes. He debates kicking off the blankets to lower his fever, but a chilled shiver down his spine tells him not to.

Wiping his forehead on the corner of his already sweat soaked blanket, Roger bites down on the lining to muffle the pathetic moans leaving his throat.

The nurses bring him food and a book to read. Roger only hauls himself up when dehydration forces him to. His tongue is dry like a patch of sandpaper and his skin is radiating heat. He needs to drink, or he will die. He wraps his broken lips around the bottle of water he was given with lunch. The cold that slides down his throat brings tears to his eyes. 

Roger finds himself sitting against the door. Cool bottle clutched between his clammy hands.

He doesn't possess the energy to bring himself onto the bed only half a step away.

It is irritating. His veins itch under his skin and he cannot reach. Roger grits his teeth and bangs his head back against the door. His stomach growls, but he isn't hungry. He drinks more, bottle to his lips until he is sucking on air. Rogers doesn't notice the bottle is empty until head lulls sideways. 

He lets himself slide to the floor. His head is too full to hold up and the bottle rolls onto the floor with a quiet rattle. Roger watches it go.

A heavy beat of sweat rolls down his temple and his hair sticks to his forehead. He is so hot he might be in the Sahara desert rather than South West London in December. Roger watches the sweat roll down the tip of his nose and dissolve onto the grey floor.

Everything is too much and at the same time he is bored out of his mind. 

The emptiness in the room leaves more space for the resentment that has settled deep in his underbelly. He never had to handle withdrawal alone. He would have Imogen and Janice while he lived with Richard. Then came Freddie, Brian or John. Because of them he has to undergo the shivers and disease alone. No caresses, no encouragement. 

There is no comfort in reality. 

Instead Roger hallucinates. 

The fever brings him into a world between the wake and asleep. The only reason why he is aware of the illusions his tumbling mind creates is because all four of them, he, Freddie, Brian and John are there. He is brought up the stairs. Hands held by loose fingers and guided by a touch on his lower back. In this dream the door to Freddie's office doesn't exist and Roger is pulled into the bedroom with the other three.

It is a dream, but Roger clings onto it until the image becomes blurry around the edges and he fades into a restless sleep. On the floor, against the door. 

★☆★

By day four Roger understands and hates the daily routine.

Roger is dehydrated to the point he doesn't have to pee once during the day. Instead, he settles on his knees over the pot because the drugs decided to purge itself out of him through his throat.

Nausea is made worse by the smell of food. Roger hasn't eaten since breakfast three days ago. 

Acid burns the back of his mouth. After ridding his empty stomach of the brown watery liquid, he heaves nothing but air down the bowl. He hates it. Gagging around the stifling air of the small dusty room. 

Once or twice he is checked on to ensure he hasn't vomited in his own mouth and chocked to death yet. The nurse for lunch was the same for breakfast. When she finds him still bend over the toilet she frowns.

Lauren steps closer and lays a palm over his scorching forehead. 

The cool touch sends Rogers eyes back into his skull with a hum. He leans into the first human touch he's had in days, despite how pathetic it is. 

"You've got a doctors appointment scheduled." she tells him.

Roger staggers when she withdraws her hand. He clamps onto the toilet seat to keep himself up. She is still looking down at him. Roger doesn't want to acknowledge the dizzying fact that there are three of her. 

"Come on." She offers him her arm. "You need it." 

Roger is half dragged and half shuffled to the examination room by her. It goes as expected. The nurse waits outside and the doctor is the same man as last time. Roger pees in the plastic cup again, he is still underweight and now he is also told that his withdrawal is causing his temperature to rise. If that's how easy it is, _he_ should have become a doctor. 

When the prodding is over Roger is given vitamins to supplement his poor diet, but nothing for his nausea. 

No. He'll have to sit this out himself. 

He is unceremoniously dropped onto his bed. Laura, the nurse, doesn't bother with the blankets so Roger wraps his arms around his middle and sucks it up. 

He is too tired to move. Too tired to sleep and spends the rest of the day tracing the cracks and spots on the wall until he sees faces in the surface. 

★☆★

Around day 5 Roger begins to lose track of days.

He wakes up between lunch and breakfast. Roger doesn't bother reaching for the trey in the door compartment. He doesn't bother with the light switch either.

The worst part of going cold turkey is the fever and sweating. The blanket has molded itself against his shivering form. His muscles ache and his teeth clatter while it isn't cold, he is sore and useless.

He is angry.

While Roger has been subjected to a lot of bullshit in his life, this is where he draws a line.

John and Freddie had begged Roger to stay at their house after he had attempted to escape the hospital. Granted, without them he would be back with Richard. Without them he also wouldn't be here.

He hates here.

Every muscle in his body contracts and pulls on the nerve ending attached to the other. 

The pain is dreadful. The metallic bed rattles with his tremors. The sound is infuriating. So much so that Roger forces himself to his feet and push his mattress onto the floor. It lands with a thud. Roger falls down on it. Shameful as it is, the cold hardness under his spine feels like home. If he closes his eyes and covers his ears with his hands he can pretend Imogen is sound asleep next to him and he can imagine the faraway footsteps of the nurses are Richard.

 _Or Freddie._ a little voice suggests. _Coming to safe you, like last time_.

Roger doesn't have the energy to humor his inner voices that know nothing of the real world. Freddie isn't coming back. He was the one who put Roger here. He was the one who told him to go home with him, where Roger fell in trance with people who have send him away when he finally became comfortable. He told Roger to go to the homeless shelter, where Roger was assaulted and humiliated. He told Roger to come here, why would this time be better? 

★☆★

It's day 6 or 7. 

Christmas passed by. Soon New Years will too. Roger doesn't care. The drug cravings don't go away. It is so intense Rogers fingers curl into claws and his stomach cramps until he silences it by digging his nails in the bloated skin.

He misses sounds and the unclinical touch of other humans. The lack of stimulation, the lack of energy drives him up a wall. 

Without a clock or window the only way Roger can tell the difference between day and night is by his meals. 

While he forced a piece of dry bread down his throat after chewing the dough to soppy mush, he's grown thinner in a matter of days. There isn't a mirror for him to check his reflection, for which he is grateful. He doesn't want to see his miserable face, but he can't miss the sickly thinning of his wrists his pants sliding down his jutted hips. 

His sleeping schedule is nonexistent. 

He sleeps when can. It's the closest to relief he can be right now, but the nightmares are hard to battle. Richard is always there, with his razor teeth and knifed fingers. Roger relives old memories. Sometimes Richard is there, sometimes it is a stranger. Sometimes they change into Freddie. He laughs down at Rogers defeated body, the ringing sound is foreign to Rogers ear, but heart ripping all the same. His chest is always heaving when he crawls out of those nightmares. Sweat sticks his sweater to his arms and tremors make him rock back and forth like a child. 

Thankfully, not even a mirror is there to witness his frazzled state. 

He would die for a hit of heroin right now just to sleep dreamlessly and be dead for a moment.

★☆★

On day something between 11 and 13 Roger has an existential crisis.

Withdrawal will pass. Misery will not.

He spends his time under his bed, for a change. With his blanket tightly wrapped around his back and his knees drawn to his chest he tries to remember a time in his life he wasn't ruined. Like a carton of milk left open to go rotten at the back of the fridge. 

Roger had never stood a chance. 

If he thought Freddie, John and Brian casting him away had come as a surprise, he would be lying to himself. 

His father changed and casted him away, his grandmother rejected him and her daughter, his mother died and left him, Freddie changed his mind overnight and decided he couldn't do it. After months of never prevailing support, Freddie gave up and left him in the hands of the next misfortunate fucker. 

Richard despite being his awful self, never forced Roger away. 

If Roger really saw that car outside the window that afternoon, Richards love would proof to be boundless. Crazy, fucked up and dangerous. But boundless. 

Richard is consistent misery. Rogers gut tells him that no matter what, he will find himself back where he started. Only awaiting a harsher punishment for each passing minute.

Freddie is unexpected misery, which had hit harder because Roger had not anticipated it. Not short term. Not after their talk.

This is how he spends his time.

Propped up somewhere, thinking, trying to come to terms with the prospect of returning back to the street when Freddie, John and Brian have successfully locked him out of their already complex lives. He tries to tell himself prostitution is not the most dreadful humiliating thing he had ever done. That it could be worse, even though he can't see how. He thinks about the possible things Richard could do to him and would. Roger is unsure if even Richard can think of a punishment fitting such a long disappearance, but he should not underestimate his creativity. 

Needing to come to terms with his future is difficult. He rolls onto his back and stares at the springs of his mattress. There is dust underneath the bed makes his nose prickle. 

He pokes his fingers against the mattress. Bored. Sometimes his finger gets stuck in the rusted springs and he rips his hand back when he bleeds. 

Every day the drugs are flushed out of his system a little more. Every second he becomes sober is a second closer to leaving the ward. Roger cannot lie to himself and believe he were actually to return to Freddie, John and Brian. He won't, because he won't be welcome. If the rehabilitation ward allows mail, he hasn't gotten any. There is only one certainty in his life and that is Richard. 

Richard is pain, nerve racking fear and rape and humiliation.

But he is also never-failing, constant force that has kept Roger around and alive. Like the sun and its planets. The light and the mot. The honey and the ants.

When Roger falls asleep under the bed and dreams about each time in his life he was forced onto his stomach and assaulted, Freddie isn't there to safe him. 

★☆★

On day 14? 15? Roger is woken up in tears.

He hasn't cried since coming to the rehabilitation ward, but today an awful wetness pushes against his eyeballs and barbwire crawls up his throat. Indeed. Roger is on the verge of tears. 

His body is starting to feel better. 

His stomach growls and his lips smack for something to drink. His appetite has returned and so has the energy in his limbs.

Roger knows his days here are coming to an end. He tries to come up with the pro's and con's of returning to Richard, but all thoughts of prostitution have send his heart into a completely frenzy. He hates it. For the last five years of his life he's had to put up with violence, rape, pain, witnessing inhumane acts of demonic nature. Finally the thought of returning to Richard makes him bawl. 

"Roger? Breakfast."

The nurse either doesn't hear or doesn't care about his sobs. 

He rubs at his eyes angrily. He doesn't want to cry. He doesn't have a choice but to go back. It hurts to stifle the choked out gasps in his tightened chest. He is weak. He is nothing. 

Roger bends forward and shakes.

Tears leak onto his shirt and his hands bawl into fists. 

He wishes he had begged Freddie, John and Brian to stay. He wished he had tried harder, because now despite their sincere promise to let him come back, he knows that they will settle back into their life without him. They will forget his assets and remember his faults. His paranoid screams and the stolen pills. When he comes out of here they will have changed their minds and truly realized how heavy of a concrete block he was to their feet. 

Roger can't blame them, he doesn't even want to be around himself. 

He hates them for showing him what he could have had if he wasn't Roger. He hates them for being the perfect definition of home. He despises them. He cries. He cries until his throat is raw, his face is red and he tastes salt on his lips. 

Roger can't sleep. Today he wishes he was dead. 

★☆★

On day five million three hundred sixty five thousand seven hundred and twelve, Roger wakes up without bile at the back of his throat and intense pressure in his forehead.

In reality he hasn't been in the DDU ward for more than two weeks, but it had felt like an eternity. 

When he sits up in his bed it is not soaked in overnight sweat. He had suffered from a nightmare, but nothing that had him spasming off the bed like some nights before, when he woken up with a thud on the floor. 

Roger rubs the back of his neck and draws his knees to his chest. 

With the pressure off his ribs, all there is left is a gaping emptiness. Even the resentment he feels towards Freddie is nothing but a shadow of a true emotion. Its lost intensity and purpose. If nobody, not even himself cares about what he feels, why would he? 

An awful smell comes from his mouth when he yawns. Granted, Roger hasn't cared for hygiene much during his stay.

His knees wobble when he gets up to brush his teeth by the sink in a shallow effort to feel more human again. 

The hairs on the brush are thick and hardened. The paste is cheaper than the one John Freddie and Brian shared in their bathroom. He continues to brush while he glares at the grey swirls of a poor paint job on the wall above the sink.

"Roger Taylor?" 

It is the first time he's woken up before a nurse has brought him his breakfast. It is also the first time a nurse had opened the door to his room without the scheduled doctors appointment. 

He frowns at her, toothbrush still between his teeth.

His urine sample was already taken yesterday and she doesn't carrying any vitamins in her arms, only a chart. 

"I have good news," She keeps the door open with the heel of her foot. "Your tests came back clean. You're permitted to go to DDU2. The open ward." 

Roger drops his toothbrush in the sink, frown deepening. "What?" 

"You will be starting the 'Therapeutic Community Method' group and social therapy." She smiles, as if she was truly proud of such an accomplishment. 

The toothpaste dribbles down his chin and he wipes it off with his sleeve. 

The hard drug ward only has 10 beds, 10 rooms, a maximum of 10 patients of which Roger hasn't met any. True to Carinas word it had indeed been entirely locked down. He hasn't seen the sun in weeks and the only way out of the square room was through the doctors office. 

"What?" 

Roger isn't sure what he is asking. The nurse is patient with him.

"It means that you can leave all your things here, I will escort you to the other ward and sign you in there. You are assigned to a new room, support group and therapist." She explains. "Ward two isn't locked, which means you get to go outside and roam if you wish to, but there are regular drug tests to keep you on track." 

Nervous sweat breaks out on his forehead. 

He'd been aware that his time at ward one would have been limited. The conditions were somber and grey, but this is another step closer to being forced into the outside world. He doesn't feel relieved when nurse Linda escorts him out of the corridor. 

Each step is one closer to uncertainty. Or Richard. 

"Everything will be become clear while you're there. DDU2 focuses on community and coping skills."

At Rogers apprehensive curled down lips, she throws her head back in a chuckle. 

"You'll like it."

Roger doesn't have the energy to question her arguable standards. His days of doing nothing while detoxifying have left his muscles weakened and together with the drugs, all energy was drained from his bloodstream. His knees struggle suddenly being forced to walk the lengths of the one ward to the other.

Like last time the halls are empty. Only his and Lindas footsteps echo against the pale grey walls as he huddles after her.

While his little square room has provided the bare minimum of needs, Roger had become accustomed to it. He knew each dent in the wall and the rhythm of dripping water in the sink. The mattress now had his shape permanently molded in it. Roger guesses they will trash it.

His room had sucked, but he had become accustomed to it.

"This way in."

He should have learned by now not to get too comfortable, Roger think bitterly, while Linda holds the door open to the door that says 'ward two'. It didn't have to be opened with a key and the corridor leading to the next set of doors bursts with color. He never appreciated the primary colors of abstract art, but his eyes have gotten used to the pale shades of grey and green in his isolation. He breathes— this is new. 

The art is framed and hung on the walls in even distance. He can't make out a single thing he sees, but his heart aches when they reach the end of the hall to soon and Linda opens the last set of doors and gives him the slightest nudge when he staggers. 

"Oh."

"Yes." She grins. 

Roger doesn't expect to step into a room with wide open space. He had been stuck in a ward with a maximum capacity of ten, windowless and grey. 

This ward is larger not only larger, but Rogers mouth falls agape at the sight of _people_. Not in purple scrubs or doctors coats, but in grey sweats and white t-shirts, like him.

Man and women are playing boardgames, chatting over steaming cups of tea, some sit by themselves reading a book, playing solitaire.

More sound fills Rogers ears than he's heard since arrival he resist the urge to cover his ears. 

Linda pulls him to the reception area tucked in the corner of the entrance. His eyes can't linger on more wall art or the comfortable chairs fitted with armrests and people. _People_. Laughing, humming, tattling, arguing. 

"—Roger Taylor?"

Roger blinks at the receptionist when he catches the end of her sentence. "Huh?" 

She gives him a kind smile. 

"Welcome," She repeats. "Roger Taylor, right?" 

"Yes." 

She scribbles something down. Linda had given her the chart she had been holding on her way to pick Roger up. The receptionist glances between her form and Linda's while she scribbles things down which Roger doesn't bother trying to read. He finds himself sneaking glances at the other patients sitting around the communal space.

Most of them are thin, like him. They don't look quite as awful as he imagines he does, but they are obvious addicts. Women have long unwashed hair and grimly short bitten nails. Men's faces are sunken and they are balding too young, too rapidly. 

There is a sickening surge of comfort. He won't stand out like a sore thumb for once. 

He thinks about the pity John and Freddie and Brian had shown for his condition. Roger won't get that here, everyone has scars and a tragic rock bottom story. Otherwise they would not have been here. 

The new form is suddenly shoved under his nose and like the day Freddie forced him to sign in, he is given a pen.

"We just need your signature."

 _What if I don't?_ Roger wonders. What if he doesn't take it, folds his arms and stomps his foot and refuses.

Linda watches him, eyebrow quirked. "It's just a formality, Roger." 

He doesn't know what he is signing for. Neither did he the first time he signed himself in under Freddie's watchful eye. Now he is alone and it is all on him when he writes his name in the signature box. The numbness he began to feel this morning eases the decision. It doesn't matter. If he doesn't sign it he might be kicked out sooner than he is ready for. 

"Very well, Roger, thank you. This is goodbye, I hope I won't have to see you down the hall again."

Linda chuckles, Roger drops the pen on the form with a smile like grimace. 

Linda leaves and the receptionist takes the from him.

Roger had tried not to glance at the information on it, but he caught a glimpse of his weight and height anyway. It probably says something about his drug history as well. He imagines it isn't anything shocking to the people here.

Then, Roger is given a smile and a number. 

"Uh..."

"27. Remember it. Just down the hall and to the left. Can't miss it." 

He's usually not this awkward in social situations. He follows the line of her pointing finger with a thick swallow. After two weeks of complete immobility he is suddenly asked to navigate himself in a strange place surrounded by strangers. 

He turns back to her. His eyes are losing moisture from how wide he's opened them. 

"What about food?"

"There's a dinner bell three times a day which will let you know when meals are served and around the clock snacks and drinks available in the canteen as well. Don't hesitate to approach staff, you will be given a schedule soon."

 _Right._ He thinks. _'Therapeutic Community method' group and social therapy_.

"Okay."

"More questions?"

"No." Roger says. There are too many swirling around his head and he is too slow to pick one. His legs are already moving him in the direction of his appointed room.

He feels eyes on him as he walks. Arms glued stiffly against his sides and head bowed. 

If there's anything he doesn't want is to be drawing attention. 

The floors are beige rather than grey. They are slippery under Rogers socked feet, but they aren't as cold to touch like ward one had been. True to the receptionists word, Roger finds room 27 with ease exactly 27 doors down. 

The pale white door has a plaque with 27 written on it. Roger has neighbors on either side of his room. 26 and 28. 

Down the hall he saw that some people kept their doors open. There are people inside, lounging, reading, napping. Sometimes multiple in one room.

He tries for the door, which opens without a key. It is worrisome that it doesn't lock. While he had tried not to think about Freddie or Richard too much while he was withdrawing, the image of the car and cold hands around his neck kept him up at night and still cause his heart to pound rapidly against his sore ribs.

Roger slams the door shut and he leans against the back. Breathing harshly through his nose.

His new room is twice as large as the DDU1 room. The bed in the corner under the window has a firm mattress and pillow. On top they left him a package which includes a new set of clothes, a comb, bar of soap a brush, towel and a identity card with his name on it. He has a sink and toilet, but no shower. If he was given a towel Roger assumes there are communal showers somewhere. He got a mirror, bolted to the wall and protected by a layer of plastic. The bed is also bolted to the floor. 

His heart is still racing. The new environment is unease, but there has never been a situation in his life he hasn't learned how to get acclimated to. 

Roger reluctantly removes himself from the door. 

There is nothing to barricade it with. 

He slides over to the bed stand on the mattress to reach the window. His fingers trace over the sealed glass to check how easy it is for someone to break through. His heart settles when he discovers the glass is double— Roger he steps on his pillow and paper crackles under his sole.

He freezes. 

Lifting his foot, Roger sees a letter, addressed to him. 

★☆★  
 _  
"Hey."_

_"Hey."_

_Freddie glances over his shoulder to see John standing in the doorway, still in his work clothes. His arms wrap around Freddie's waist and his cold lips brush over his neck, exhaling hot air against him._

_The drag of Johns body is heavy like the atmosphere that hangs over the house._

_"You're just torturing yourself being here." Johns words tickle him. Freddie shrugs. He'd initially gone upstairs to freshen up before dinner, but he'd ended up in his old office/Rogers bedroom. Not only the room but the house has been empty since his traumatic departure. Freddie has his knees on the pulled out couch and his tips of his fingers stroke over the sheets._

_John isn't so innocent himself. Yesterday he had made Rogers bed despite it's glaring emptiness._

_"I don't deserve a little bit of torture?" Freddie asks, only half joking._

_As expected, John doesn't laugh._

_His arms tighten around Freddie's middle. "Don't say that. You know we had no choice."_

_"There's always a choice."_

_"It was the best option."_

_John leans his chin onto Freddie's shoulder. Freddie closes his hands around Johns. He feels sorrow tug on his heart and sadness pulled over him like a weighted blanket. Not even Johns touch helps where it usually would. He missed blue eyes and sunny smiles._

_"The turkey is going to burn."_

_"Brian will get it." Freddie says, holding John close so he can't move away._

_John hums. "Is he gonna have to celebrate Christmas alone?" Another joke falls sour in the already spoiled air. Neither of them says anything for a long moment until John exhales sharply. "Sorry."_

_"He hates us."_

_"He doesn't—"_

_Freddie twists his neck to look at John, who looks about as tired as he he feels. Freddie cradles Johns face between his hands. He strokes his thumbs over the skin underneath Johns eyes until he can smooth out the bags. Pretending he's 19 years old again._

_"I made him believe this would be permanent, we would be permanent. Then I send him away."_

_"You didn't send him away. We send him to the hospital." John covers Freddie's hands with his own. His fingers are cold and stiff from the long shift. "He is going to come back and he will stay here permanently when he does."_

_"If he does."_

_" _When_ he does. When." Freddie closes his eyes in time for John to lean in for a short kiss. "Don't forget we did the only right thing to do. Okay? Let's go downstairs before Brian eats all the roast alone."_

_Freddie allows himself to be tugged into the nook of Johns arm. Together they walk down the stairs, carrying a heavy guilt on their chest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my dears. Please leave a comment to let me know what you’re thinking! 
> 
> And stay safe ❤️


	16. Of Fear and Projecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger begins a new life in DDU2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovies, another Sunday, another week of isolation. Keep safe and good read darlings.

_Day 3:_

_Woke up with a headache and missed the breakfast call. Was able to take shower without waiting in queue. The common area is loud and my room too cold. Nothing interesting to repor-_

"What's your name newbie?" 

Roger looks up in time to see the man, tall and stout fall in the chair opposite the table. He had taken this seat tucked in the far corner hoping not to be disturbed. By pressing his lips firmly closed he hopes the other grey clothed man gives up and leaves him be to write his morning entry in peace. 

Curious narrowed eyes drag over the opened pages of Rogers diary. Roger drops his pencil and cradles the notebook against his chest. 

His offended scowl isn't taken serious. 

"What? Afraid I'll read all your dirty secrets?" The man crosses his arms. His shirt sits snug around his toned muscles. He leans back in the chair until it balances on two legs. "What's your name?" 

It has been two days since he last spoke to another person, which had been his assigned therapist. Roger itches to tell him he should fuck off, but his voice is stuck somewhere between his gorge and windpipe, leaving an itch in his hollow chest. 

"Fine then," The man holds up his hands. "If you don't want to tell me, I'll find out during group session." 

How does he know—

"They tell us when another unfortunate soul will join the damned. I'm sure you're excited for the first session, which is," They both glance at the large clock opposite the entrance hall. "In six minutes." 

Roger closes his diary with the pencil between the pages. He keeps it close to his chest while eyeing the man opposite of him with a calculated unease. 

He is handsome, despite his receding hairline and alcohol induced aging of his skin. 

At a young age Roger hadn't understood to be cautious of charming men with poorly hidden agendas. He isn't sixteen anymore. The mans deceiving cologne and freehanded smile did not lure him into a sense of security. 

His thin lip quirks on the right corner. Roger narrows his eyes further. 

"Alright, you don't want to talk, but at least let me show you where the session will be. You see," He explains while pushing his chair back to its intended position and getting up. "They strongly encourage helping each other, in this place. And while I don't think you necessarily want or need my help, it would look really good for me if I was seen showing you around."

What?

Roger channels his mistrust to his face. It made _some_ sense and Roger was told very clearly that all therapy was mandatory. The ward is large and he will be damned if he has to ask the receptionist for direction one more time. 

After a pause, Roger gathers himself to follow his fellow patient, who smiles brightly at having won this battle.

"Have you been introduced to anyone yet?"

Roger shakes his head no, the other man scoffs and they round a corner into a corridor Roger has not been to yet. He clamps onto his booklet and stays close to the other man. "Well, I'm Chris, but people call me Crystal. No, not because of Crystal Meth but nobody believes me on that. I don't have any hobbies but I enjoy a good game of poker and television time on Fridays are my favorite. I've been here for a while now but they haven't set a release date just yet." 

While the taller man, Crystal, is build like one of Richards handyman his aura is sound and easy-going. 

Roger gives him a sideways glance, prompting him to continue. 

"I don't think this place is too bad, but the food is dreadful I tell you, so if anyone wants to get you something from home? Ask for pennies to unlock the vending machine. You'll thank me later." 

Crystal holds open the door at the end of the hall, Roger ducks under his arm to get inside the sparsely decorated creme colored room. They are one of the last to arrive. A circle of chairs is set around the room, most of which are occupied by people. Roger counts only seven people there plus one person not dressed in the depression uniform. He assumes the smiling man in bright yellow is the therapist. 

True to his word Crystal makes a show of appointing him a seat, Roger sits down with a nod. Silently thankful Crystal slinks in the chair next to his. 

An uncomfortable silence settles a rock in Rogers abdomen. This setting reminds him of his support group sessions even though they are not in a classroom now and the room doesn't smell like homemade soup. There are people in a circle, eyes heavy with bags and scars covered with their grey attire, but they are different from the people in Denises Together Not Alone support group. These people are not plucked from the street, still fresh from the hunt. Roger knows it will be tough to come into a group of people already comfortable with each other and on a road to recovery ahead of him. He has an odd story, even to Denise he could not open up. 

"You don't have to be nervous y'know. You look a lot better than most of these fuckers did when they came from ward one." 

Crystals words surprise him but he doesn't give him the satisfaction of showing it on his face.

Roger shifts until his legs are under his bum and he wraps his arms around his middle to make himself small. Crystal watches from the corner of his eye, but stays silent only because the group leader straightens his spine to start their session.

"Good morning everyone."

There is a series of hello's and Roger stays tight lipped. He isn't nervous. He knows he won't tell them anything substantial in case one gets the funny idea to inform the police. Nervous he is not, but impatient for this to be over, yes. 

Not because he is nervous. He is not.

"Today we have a special sitting, because we are welcoming a new member into our group, this is Roger. Everyone say hello to Roger."

All eyes land on him. There's the sensation of a lead cloak being draped over his body. It's stifling. Roger lets his eyes drop to the floor so he can trace the lines in the laminate flooring. A round of hello's is casted his way, Roger nods his chin in acknowledgment but he finds it hard to meet the mans piercing eyes. 

"Roger, welcome to DDU2. I'm Adam and I will be leading this and all other sessions in this group. I saw you already met Chris, a very beloved patient at our ward. Tell us about yourself."

Rogers tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth and his upper and bottom jaw have molded into one. 

The laminate was poorly done. They should have asked a professional for the job, he thinks, cold sweat has broken out on his forehead and God he really doesn't want to tell them anything about himself if he can help it. 

"Uh..." 

"Everyone is nervous the first few sessions, even I was." 

Roger breathes through his nose. With one hand he clamps his book to his chest and with the other he covers his mouth to muffle his panting now that he's heating up with embarrassment. 

"Maybe," Crystal says, "It helps if I go first?"

Adams smile is audible in his voice. "That is a good idea Chris. Tell Roger and the group some things about yourself." Roger side eyes Crystal again, still unsure what to make of him. 

He sits slumped in his seat so his neck is propped on the headrest and his ankles cross in front of him. 

"I'm Christ Taylor, 23, better known as Crystal. I was born in the midlands, dropped out of school to get a job, didn't work out so I got involved with the wrong people and ended up here. I've been to rehab a couple or so times, but I'm sure this time it's the big time." 

"That's how we like to hear it." Adam says.

As expected the eyes in the room fall on Rogers again. He makes himself face the people he is forced to open up to. Most of which don't seem overly interested and Roger lets the pressure glide off his back. Crystal had given a vague grim summary of his life without causing a ruffle. If Roger leaves out enough details, so can he. 

One of his legs dangles from the chair. He sways to let out the energy stuck between his muscles. He drops his hands and book in his lap. Palms clammed with sweat between his fingers. 

"I'm Roger."

The girl in the chair opposite of him in the circle offers the upmost patient smile Roger had only seen on Imogen's worn widest face. She is not Imogen but if Roger squints she could be. 

"I am 21 years old and I was born in Kings Lynn."

"Do you still live there?" Adam asks when Roger had fallen quiet by the end of his sentence. 

After a curt head shake, Adam nods in understanding. "Is there anything else you'd like to add?"

Roger shakes his head again and is relieved that he is allowed to keep his lips sealed for the rest of the session. While Adam throws many questions to the group Roger dodges participating like the plague and he exhales in relief when an hour and a half later the session is pronounced closed. Everyone leaves their chairs where they are but rise to their feet and mingle somewhere in the middle. The seriousness melts into ringing laughter. Roger is grateful to slip away before anyone can stop to talk to him. He returns to his room with his diary held against his chest and his grey shirt soaked with sweat. 

Finally in his room he closes the door and falls flat on the bed with a suffering groan. 

★☆★

The next day between sessions Roger finds Crystal bend over a scrabble board alone. 

After a mental back and forth Roger slides in the stool opposite from him with a neutral smile on his face.

"Hey." 

Crystal doesn't look up or surprised. 

"You play?" He asks, Roger tucks his knees under his chin, nodding. Crystal takes out the tiles from the pouch and gives Roger and himself seven each. 

He tries not to show his disdain at his letters, but he has two X'es and an A. 

Crystal isn't looking too happy either. 

He puts down _WHORL_. Earning a number of points he notes on a piece of ripped paper. Roger follows, putting down _CALYX_ , feeling smug when Crystal scowls.

"So," He says, casually arranging his two remaining letters. "What brought you here?" 

"Heroin." The word rolls of Rogers tongue easier than he'd considered himself capable of. Crystal remains calm looking, eyebrow raised. 

"Yeah, no shit." 

Suddenly Roger itches to cover his scarred arms. "My uh- I guess my ex forced me to come." 

"That's rough." 

Crystal puts down _MAP_ over Rogers A. He notes down the score. 

"What about you?" Roger asks. 

"Amphetamines." 

He never heard of it, but Crystal assumes he does so Roger goes with it. "Hm." 

"It's in everything y'know. Everything doctors give you. It is sort of crazy but over half the patients here are Amphetamines abusers. It's a total epidemic." 

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Roger puts down two tiles and again Crystal notes the score and gives them both another seven. Something about Crystal is welcoming and Roger is cautious to trust it. He has been sleeping poorly and aching for human contact, his judgment is one he can't safely rely on. 

"How have you been liking it here?"

Roger shrugs. "Meh."

"It's really not that bad." Crystal says. "I've been to many rehabilitation wards, I promise you that this is the Ritz of rehab. You just need to get the knack of the place." 

"Like how?" 

"Like," Crystal holds his shoulders up before deflating with a sigh. "What canteen ladies to suck up to, Barbara, but don't bother with Lola. What hour to hit the shower, the last half hour of lunch. What people to hang out with. Y'know. Your therapist needs to like you. They have the final say in decisions concerning you." Roger is making rapid mental notes while watching Crystal arrange his tiles. He realizes Crystal is looking out for him, but why? "If you want to go home soon, you have talk more in group therapy. It's all about progress and opening up. They want to see you embrace your trauma in front of complete strangers." 

Roger frowns. "Have you?"

Crystal shakes his head chuckling. "I'm still here aren't I?" 

It is surprisingly hard to stop the laughter that bubbles up Rogers chest. He covers his mouth to hide the curl of his lip, but the glint in Crystals eye tells he was too late. 

He finally lowers his eyes to look at his new tiles. Fortune hit him with two E's and an R. 

Crystal has a pressed look on his face, Roger bites the inside of his cheek. 

"What are you laughing at?" 

"Nothing." Roger smirks. "Nothing— I just, that face you make."

With narrowed eyes Crystal lays down three tiles on the board. Roger waits for his turn more than he cares for the three-word-8-points-word his opponent sets. When Crystal is done Roger moves in to get rid of all his letters again. The smugness only melts from his face when Crystal points at his tattoo the second he stretches his arm across the board.

"W? What's that for?"

He gives Crystal a pointed look, lips slightly parted. Roger should not have worn sleeveless t-shirts on his fourth day in rehab.

"To cover my gang symbol."

A smirk spreads over Crystals face. He laughs heartedly while he puts two tiles down. "Yeah, right." 

Roger keeps his mouth shut about the Bull Crew and John. His nails scrape at the peeling skin around the tattooed area, he wonders if that's normal, but at least it doesn't burn anymore. 

"Who's your therapist?" 

He tries and fails to keep himself from going red. Crystals smile grows wider, the forever tease. "Dr. Beyrand." He admits. 

"Dominique!" Crystal clasps his hands and then Rogers shoulder across the table. Roger tenses under the sudden touch but prides himself for not flinching away. "Lucky you." 

While Crystal is rough, gruff and too tall, Roger sits easily in his inviting company and casual laughter. They play together until Rogers eyes begin to droop and his head rests on his arm. Crystal finally suggests he should sleep in his room when Roger snores. After an insistent tap on his shoulder Roger hums, not moving to stand. He doesn't like his room or the bed. He has barely slept since coming to ward two.

"Come on," Crystal hoists him to his feet and wraps an arm around his waist. "Can't have you sleeping in the common room."

"Hm."

His head falls onto Crystals sturdy shoulder while they shuffle to the dorm corridors. The whole way there Crystal makes small talk and Roger enjoys not having to participate in conversation for the atmosphere to be pleasant. He realizes grimly, while Crystal leaves him to go the rest of the way by himself, that he likes the other man. 

Then he loathes himself for latching onto another person for survival again. 

★☆★

"Roger! Please take a seat while I set some tea. Any for you?"

Roger pushes all thoughts of Freddie to the back of his mind when he plops himself down on Dominique's loveseat sofa, which has a similar color to the one in Freddie's office. 

She too has a fake plant, tea set and a window to look over the hospital parking lot. 

Roger pulls his knees to his chest, the familiarity sits uneasy in his empty stomach. His diary is trapped between his knees and stomach. He hadn't realized he hadn't replied to her question until he is given a cup of tea he doesn't really want. The mug burns his palms and the steam makes his nose runny.

Dominique takes place in the armchair opposite of him. She drags her notebook in her lap and taps her pen on her bottom lip while she finds the page they had left on.

"Right, Roger." She gives him a kind contained smile. Roger hides behind the tea. "How has your first week been at DDU2?" 

"Different." 

"How so?" She asks, her pen clicked on and hovering over the page, ready to make notes. 

He gulps down the tea and grimaces. Milk. She watches him burn his tongue and shrug both shoulders. "S'louder. More freedom and stuff."

"What freedoms are you referring to?"

"Walking around, talking to people, showering, getting post, playing games and watching tv." 

Dominiques smoked eyes make him press his jaws firmly together. She is sharper than the edge of her stilettos. Her chin tips up, she hums. 

"Do you like having those freedoms?" 

"Yes." Roger says, it almost feels like a trick question. "Freedom is nice."

"It is, I agree. Do you use it? Have you been walking around the hospital? Talking to people? Taken long hot showers?"

Roger shakes his head no. He tips the edge of the mug back so he can sip from the rim. 

"Have you gotten any mail?" 

Roger hesitates. He glances between the notebook in his lap and the tea in his mug. Dominique stays quiet while he thinks of a sufficient reply. "Yes." He decides to say when the silence has dragged on for longer than deemed comfortable. Dominique is writing fast, Roger sinks further between the corner and armrest of the sofa. 

"You don't seem happy about receiving post." 

Roger shrugs.

"Why not? Isn't it a freedom you're happy to have?" 

"I also have the freedom to decide if I want to open it or not." Roger mumbles. He wouldn't have thought Dominique had heard him if it weren't for the quirked corner of her lip. 

She writes something down again, her left eyebrow raised.

"Are you afraid of what your family or friends might say about you being in rehab?" 

Rogers face pulls in distaste and puts down the mug on the lamp stand next to the armrest. "It's from my uh, partner. The one that send me here." 

"Oh. I see." 

"I think he's trying to reach me to tell me I can't come back home. I have no reason to open the letter and lose all purpose of why I want to get better." 

Rogers face heats up when he slipped and revealed his partner is a 'he'. Dominique must be having a psychoanalysis field day. 

At least she doesn't show any outward emotion. She hums again, voice calculated and low.

"Is he, your partner, the only reason why you want to get better?"

"I have nothing without him." Roger admits too swiftly under pressure of his ribs on his heavy beating heart. He swallows around the closed feeling in his throat in attempt at hiding his pathetic reality. 

He appreciates that Dominique sits back with frown. Her concern is also poorly hidden in her voice. "What do you mean by nothing, exactly?" 

"By nothing I mean everything." 

Roger pulls on the edge of his sock until it rises halfway up his calve again. The cats on the fabric stretch in unnatural proportions. 

"I own nothing myself. I'd be homeless." 

He isn't sure why he is telling her this, but it is certain she is good at her job, making him leap from unopened mail to his heart crushing fear of what will happen when Freddie and the others kick him out of their lives. 

"I've been homeless before." He adds. "I didn't like it and I don't want to talk about it."

"You don't have to."

Dominique is watching him so intently she is forgetting to write. 

She sighs, as if asking herself what to do with him now. She crosses a leg over the other, her heel tipping out of her shoe so it only balances on her foot by the toes, while she taps her floor with the other.

"I am very sorry to hear about your concerns, you shouldn't have to carry that around yourself. We offer support, also for life outside the ward."

People have offered him help before and again. Roger always ended in the same place under the same control. No matter how determined his next rescuer was, he had no home other than Richards and no pleasures other then heroin. So he sucks his words in his chest and feigns a smile for Dominique. Another victim to the attempt of saving the unsafe-able Roger Taylor.

"Thank you." He says tightly. She goes back to scribbling with a frown between her perfectly plucked eyebrows. 

"What did you do with the letter?"

"Stashed it under my pillow."

More writing. Roger fidgets. "I recommend storing it safely until you consider it the right time to open it." 

She is satisfied when Roger nods. Her lips curled. "Good, good. Now, tell me about your support group. What has your first impression been of the session and the people?"

Sessions with Dominique are an hour and a half long and Roger promises himself he won't reveal more to her more than he already has. 

Dominique is patient, even when he doesn't have an answer. They read through Rogers diary and talk about his schedule. Dominique comments on his eating habits and how he has been spending time with Crystal. He hesitates to tell her he worries about Crystals intentions. Dominique asks him why there would be any hidden agendas. Roger, in return, reminds her that people always have secret intentions. 

It is all gets a place in Dominique's neat orange notebook. 

★☆★

Rogers nearly chokes out his heart when he returns to his room after a shower and finds Crystal standing by the bed. 

He is clutching his heart to regain his breath. When his brain supplies that the dark figure is not someone from the outside world or the Bull Crew and that the window above his bed is still sealed, Rogers shoulders deflate and he scowls at him when Crystal dares to be amused. 

"Gave you a fright?" 

"What are you doing here?"

He unwinds the towel around his head to hang it over the bedframe. Roger crosses his arms over his heaving chest, glaring. It is not like Crystal had ever come to Rogers room since they have met. Rogers skin crawls when he thinks of Crystal following him after one of their games or chats about the local papers only Crystal could get his hands onto. 

Crystal sinks into the bedding with a self satisfied smirk. 

"Ol' Earl told me this sweet little thing had moved in next door and that I _had_ to see for myself. I took half a guess." 

Roger feels uneasy knowing one of his neighbors has been lusting over him, talking about him to others, his crossed arms turn into a self hug. Crystal sees him squirm from the corner of his eye and sits upright with an almost apologetic smile. 

"Hey, no biggie. He's 79 years old and couldn't get it up even if he overdosed on viagra this time."

"Right."

Roger struggles out of his shoes and leaves them by the door. He turns to Crystal when he speaks again, arm slung over his face. "How was your therapy session with Dr Beyrand?" 

"Can I close the door?" Roger asks first, hand on the doorknob. Crystal shakes his head. 

"Not allowed when patients are hanging out together, usually I wouldn't care, but don't want you to get penalties."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Well?" Crystal asks when Roger sits by the foot of his own bed because Crystal has occupied the rest with his gigantic form. 

Rogers legs dangle from the edge so he can sit up on the wall. His hair is still wet from his shower and he shivers in the unheated room. He'll have to get his hands on a second blanket if he wants to survive January. 

While he makes himself comfortable, Roger shrugs, glancing into his open palms on his lap. 

"I can't tell her everything. And she can tell I am not being fully honest." 

"They don't give a shit what you tell them, they've heard it thirty times over and worse, you can and should tell them whatever they want to hear. They won't do anything with it, except try to cure your addiction, maybe."

"She could call the police." 

Roger plucks on the skin between his thumb and index finger. He pinches it and feels nothing. 

Crystal taps him with his socked toe, frowning. It is the first time Roger has ever seen him look serious. It is almost flattering. "What the fuck did you do man?" 

Roger drops his hands in his lap and stares at the opened door cautiously. When the footsteps he imagined have faded into the distance Roger can breathe again. He turns to Crystal who is still splayed out on the bed, face tight with concern when Roger shakes his head.

"You don't want to know." 

★☆★

"Was it worth it?" 

Roger shakes his head and bites back a sob wreaking from his underbelly. Sweat is pouring down his face and he cries, his mouth stained with blood and tears. 

"Stop." He begs around his swollen raw bitten tongue. "Stop. Please stop."

He lost all feeling from the waist down. There had been a hammer involved, striking down on his toes until they were shriveled and broken. Then he was mercilessly pulled onto his back and his knees were rammed into until they too were bleeding and botched. Roger arms are tied to the foot of the bed with a shoestring, biting on the delicate skin of his wrist and the pain too intense to experience so he became numb. His legs weren't mobile when the bumps of his spine were slashed by the hammer too. Roger knows he will die in pain. The three of them sufficiently worked him into this position. They found him, in this room. They used the industrial hammer to wreck the window, climbed into the ward and dragged Roger onto the floor. He is laying face first in a pool of his own blood. He wishes he had opened one of Freddie's letters. He wishes he had written back how sorry he was before Richard and his man got his way with him. 

"How does that feel?" He is asked. "How does that feel?"

Rogers eyelashes clump together with drying blood. The world is fuzzing around the edges and he doesn't have much time left. He is both sad and extremely relieved. 

"I got you, in the end. Didn't I?" 

Richards lips brush over his ear. If Rogers spine was in tact he would have shivered. 

"I know where you are." 

He is shaking, his shoulders grabbed and thrown onto his side. Roger flinches and moans. Let him die swiftly. Let the suffering and mocking laughter end now. 

"Roger come back to me."

His eyes flutter behind his lids and he is pulled in two separate directions. 

"Roger! Someone, call Dominique!" 

His tongue is dry in his mouth and his head too heavy for his neck. He is on his side now, legs paralyzed and arms spasming uncontrollably. Rogers soaked hair is pulled back from his face. He cries. 

"Hey, hey Roger. Come on wake up."

The world turns bright orange behind his closed eyelids. Someone switched the lights on.

Roger is hoisted on the edge of his bed and made to sit upright supported by a hand in his shirt and one on his shoulder. He parts his lips and waits for the pain in his back and legs to make him scream. 

Only, it doesn't come.

"There you are, hey, you're in DDU2. Your own room. You're safe." 

A cold cloth soaked with water is pressed to his forehead. Roger isn't sure what's going on. There are always blurred lines between reality and pretend. His fingers reach for the hand that's holding the cloth. It's small and feminine. Roger presses his hand over hers and doesn't remember a woman being part of his torture. 

"Roger, can you open your eyes?"

He curls his free hand in his sweat soaked shirt. He shakes his head. 

"Give it a try." Another voice says. "You were having a bad dream." 

The male voice makes Roger shrink into himself. He bites the insides of his cheeks and the hammering of his rapidly beating heart becomes overwhelming again. 

"Does he need medical attention?"

"I don't think so, the fall might have brought on some bruises, nothing serious. I think he could do with some tea." 

"I'll go get some." The male voice says before he leaves the room.

Roger shivers in the cold that clings onto his sweaty body. The woman removes his hand from hers and puts him in charge of holding the cloth against his forehead. She gets up but doesn't go far. Roger flinches when his blanket is draped over his back and pulled snug over his shoulders. When he finally opens his eyes the harsh lighting makes him squint at the figure before him.

"Try to take deep breaths, you are okay. You were having a bad dream."

Roger blinks past the bleariness and sniffles. He'd stopped crying but the evidence he had cried is all over him. He pulls his knees to his chest to make himself small. Dominique, he realizes, sits down on her knees on the floor in front of the bed. Her hands neatly folded on her lap. 

"Tell me your name and what year it is."

"R-roger Taylor. 1970." 

Dominique raises her eyebrow. Roger swallows around his tongue. 

"71." 

"Right." Her tone is quiet and tentative. "Do you realize you were having a nightmare?" 

A quick glance at his unshattered window forces Roger to nod. This is why he was send away, he realizes. This is why he could never be normal, because they will always be out there and he will always be afraid. 

Dominique puts a hand on his knee. It is intact. The nerves aren't beaten and broken.

"What were you dreaming about?" 

He shakes his head, no. He doesn't want to talk about it. 

While the answer must displease her, Dominique nods in respect and doesn't press for more answers right now, but Roger knows he won't hear the end of it during their therapy sessions. 

Eventually the evening nurse returns to his room with cup of tea and a biscuit on the side. 

Roger is propped up on the headboard by Dominique. He doesn't want to sleep anymore and he isn't expected to. He sips his tea and the male nurse leaves them be. She sits on the edge of the bed, watching him.

"You are safe here, alright?" 

"Okay."

"If you have a nightmare or fearful thoughts again, there is always a therapist on site. 24/7. Don't hesitate to ask for them at the reception, okay?" 

Roger nods again, knowing he won't take up the offer unless it's life or death. "Okay."

"Don't forget that we are here to help."

She doesn't touch him again, for which he is grateful. Roger huddles into his blanket, breathing in the steam from his tea. 

He doesn't want to be alone, but he can't stop Dominique when she dusts off her skirt to leave. Roger watches her go with a pit in his stomach and Richards laughter ringing in his ears. Waiting for daylight to relieve him. 

★☆★  
 _  
"Brian May?"_

_The front door is opened by a good-looking tall man with wide eyes. He looks as horrified as Harry warned him he'd be. John doesn't care what he has to fix or the state of the mans apartment or whatever the fuck hw is embarrassed about, as long as he gets his pay._

_"That's me, come on in. Would you like some uh, tea? Water?"_

_John walks into the dimly lit apartment and shrugs off his coat. "A glass of water would be fine." Brian takes it from him after closing the door._

_His first impression is that the place is slightly larger than his. It's still a small flat with all kinds of knick knacks lying around, overlapping carpets, cat toys and Victorian furniture. John tries not to step on anything valuable and nearly sets his foot on a sequin shirt left on the floor._

_The living room, kitchen and bedroom are all in the one room. On the couch sits another man, looking equally mortified._

_John sets down his tool chest, eyebrows raised._

_"So what's the problem?"_

_"Uhm..."_

_The man slinks off the couch. His cheeks are tinted pink when he crosses the room to turn off the sparse lightening. Harry had told John his two friends needed a hand with their projector. It is an old thing, pointed at the wall opposite the pullout couch._

_When the embarrassed man with the striking eyes and tiny shorts (which John did not ogle, no) turns off the lights, the projection appears on the wall in the dark._

_"This is the problem."_

_"Wow."_

_Harry told him two roommates in the West Park dorms needed a quick discreet fix. He did not tell John the projector was stuck in the middle of a gay porn screening._

_John is all too familiar with the scene, though he had only gotten his hands on photographs rather than the motion picture._

_The two actors are on the floor, portrayed as wrestlers. Their cocks hard in their speedos._

_While the tall blond man has put his weight on top of his smaller, slender component, the other has a serene look of surrender in his eyes. The frame is frozen and the projector is whirling angrily._

_"It's a rental— both the film and projector." Brian comes into the living holding the glass of water. His long legs are almost hypnotizing. John watches him wrap a slender arm around the supposed roommate. They make for an attractive couple._

_John doesn't even blink._

_"Do you think it's fixable?" The shorter man asks with a worried frown._

_John walks over to the projector and squints. The whirling sound doesn't come from the movie roll or feed stool. He hopes it's the motor inside that is causing a ruckus. Motors are his specialty._

_"I think I can manage this." He informs._

_A collective sigh of relief is shared between the couple. John pretends to be busy grabbing his tools from the carrying chest and doesn't see the others share a chaste kiss on the cheek. Heat coils in his belly, maybe it's because two gay men are wrestling each other to the floor right in front of him, or the poorly concealed affection between the men in the flesh._

_John begins to unscrew the side box of the projector with precision and uses the light of his tiny flashlight. He puts the outer parts on the coffee table next to him to reveal the inside of the projector._

_While he works he feels eyes on his back. John refrains glancing over his shoulder even when the full-lipped-tight-shorts man speaks up._

_"Aren't you a bit young to be an electrician?"_

_"I'm 18." Joh mutters. "And I'm a student here, not licensed or anything. Just making some cash."_

_"Naughty."_

_John snorts. "It's not me watching a Bob Mizer porn in my living room."_

_"So you know Bob Mizer?"_

_Busted. John glances over his shoulder to catch the other man bursting in a fit of laughter. He struggles to contain his fascial muscles too, even though it isn't a laughing matter. Homosexuality is as illegal as possessing homosexual pornography._

_Yet here they are, John fixing the projector in the apartment of two very homosexual men._

_"I'm Freddie, I finished studying psychology and now following an internship. My boyfriend Brian is obtaining his PHD while teaching."_

_"I'm John." John says. "Electrical engineering, hopefully finishing early this year."_

_"Impressive."_

_Freddie flips down on the couch with a curled-catlike smile. Brian left Johns water on the coffee table too and is busying himself in the kitchen. John dedicates more attention to the job and sees that it is indeed the motor causing problems for the projector._

_After unwinding the part out with a plier, he removes it without touching the rest of the mechanics._

_The image doesn't disappear, but the whirling noise stops._

_John examens the motor in his palm. It is about as big as a pack of cigarettes. He hums, turns it over twice before selecting the right sized screwdriver to pry it open._

_"How'd you find out about Bob Mizer?"_

_He doesn't turn around so Brian can't see the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips._

_Brian sinks down on the couch too, he cuddles against Freddie's shoulder and appears a lot smaller than he is. Johns face_ doesn't _heat up._

_While he has no obligation to tell them such embarrassing stories about himself. It almost seems fair compared to the embarrassment they are enduring now with him fixing their borrowed projector and gay porn._

_He fiddles with the motor, sparing himself eye contact with the alluring men._

_"Accidentally stumbled upon one of his photoshoots at a friends house, the uh, spanked sailor edition. It was in my friends dads porn stash. I made sure they didn't see what I was tucking in my pants, they were too busy with their own loot. I took it home with me and the rest is history."_

_"Brian is the one who showed it to me." Freddie says with a proud curl of his lips. "We didn't have access to such things in India. When I came here, I didn't have the connections."_

_John unpicks the loose wiring in the motor. The blue and green cables have disconnected._

_He puts them together with a plier. The precision of the job is eliciting. He loves it. The two wires are twisted together and he is confident that when he puts it back in the projector the machinery will work as a whole again._

_"The movies are rare." He comments wryly. "Haven't gotten my hands on one yet, until now. Literally."_

_The motor clicks back in place and John uses the grease free side of the finger to fit the roll over the motor again. He turns to the coffee table and applies the outer wall of the projector back with the tiny screws he rolls back in place._

_"Done already?" Brian asks._

_John turns to him, eyebrows raised. "People usually don't complain when they get a quick fix."_

_Even in the dim lighting John can see Brian turn scarlet._

_Freddie laughs, ducking his head to kiss Brians temple. "He is just sad because you're leaving so soon, Dear."_

_This time he cannot hide his smile._

_"That's flattering."_

_He turns back to the projector. Hands on the handle to get it rolling again._

_On the first try it appears to be working again. The next moment the two wrestlers jump to continue their unequal match. The tall blond grinds onto the brunets ass, growling in his ear. John stares at the projection in quiet admiration of their toned bodies. His feet are rooted to the carpet even when he turns to face the couple sitting on the couch, but they aren't looking at the projection, they are looking at John._

_Their expressions are unreadable, John doesn't know them, but he feels heat coil in his stomach and his cock takes interest to the heavy atmosphere that's fallen over the dark living room._

_Freddie practically has Brian in his lap, one moment he is completely still and the next one of his hands travels down Brians pajama pants._

_The taller man tips his chin up and gasps. Freddie is looking straight at John while palming Brian to the rhythm of the grinding on the porn movie playing in the background._

_"You can stay, if you want. Finish the movie."_

_John swallows thickly._

_There aren't many opportunities one gets to watch an original Bob Mizer._

_Freddie's sensually hooded eyes lure John from his spot, to the couch. Brian is the one who reaches for his belt before his knees even hit the cushions. Freddie grins while he sits up to receive an open mouthed kiss. John takes a deep breath and lets the moment swallow him whole._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dears, please leave a comment if you likes it. And be safe my loves <3


	17. Of Insistence and Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys live a life without Roger again. It isn’t like before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are okay out there. I have yet to finish answering the last comments on the last chapter, but I will tomorrow ❤️ Thank you all for still reading and enjoying it still. Love you dears!

"Anything there?"

Like every other day Freddie steps into the house shaking his head. "No."

John, all dressed up for work in his overalls and combat boots gets up from the couch to place his arms around Freddie's waist. He perches his chin on his shoulder and looks down at the envelopes in his hands as Freddie flips through them to double check.

Roger has been gone for over three weeks now, which is nearly a month but to Brian feels like forever. 

On the second flip through the golden letter doesn't appear either. Freddie exhales soundly, his chest deflating in defeat. John takes the blue enveloped bills and a letter from his mother. Freddie has a couple left in his hands for himself, he frowns, then looks up to Brian.

"One for you."

"Hm." 

Freddie sits down on the couch beside him, apparently in no hurry to leave for work. 

He hands Brian the letter, which is white with red lettering. **Confidential**.

He rips it open swiftly using his pinky finger.

Out falls a letter into Brians lap. He flips it open and sees the NHS logo on the top, followed by the name of his doctor. 

Freddie wraps an arm around him and presses his lips to his temple. "Are you okay?"

Brians stomach had not been acting up for a while, but suddenly the aching pit returns and nausea crawls up his chest with its vile claws. He looks at sideways Freddie and then at John. 

"What is it?" The youngest amongst them asks with hard eyes.

Unsure of the right words to use, Brian drops the letter and runs his hands over his color drained face. The skin under his fingertips feels numb. 

When he looks up at John again he swallows thickly.

"They say they might have a diagnosis and that they want to do some tests." 

"What?" 

John is on the couch as fast as Freddie has wrapped both arms around Brians chest. While Brian is being squeezed, John snatches the letter before it gets crumbled to give it a read himself. It is the first possibly good news they have heard in months, Freddie makes sure Brian knows this by pressing their chests together and smooshing him on the lips warm and determinedly. 

"This is good, Darling." He says between kisses that leave Brian a little dazed, holding Brian by the shoulders. "They can finally help you."

Optimism had always been Freddie's thing, Brian grimaces when he is allowed to breathe. "Or it's something bad."

"Don't be silly, of course it's not! You've been feeling better lately, right? This is good. I'm certain of it."

John is still scanning the letter over with a thoughtful crease between his brow.

Brian leans into Freddie to accept the next kiss inflicted upon his swelling lips, despite himself he smiles wryly. 

"At least if they can diagnose me I can get sick leave from my job." 

"Yes," Freddie says with a bashful grin. He is still in Brians space, cradling his cheeks, squeezing his face with upmost adoration Brian can't help but melt under. "They might even have to compensate you for all those months they just let you go without sick leave."

The whole sick leave issue has been a total disaster. Without a proper diagnosis, his job wouldn't give him any further sick days or benefits. It caused a lot of problems in the long run and every day Brian expects that call from the headmaster letting him know he is fired permanently. 

"Why did they send this by mail?" John asks finally. "If it's urgent they usually call."

"Maybe it isn't urgent." Freddie shrugs.

John lips press together in a tight line. Brian knows it has something to do with hospitals and his fathers death, but John never let out too much about such subjects. 

"It's about his health, how can it not be important enough to call?" 

"That's good news." Freddie presses again with a light in his eyes that has become rare since Roger had left. It touches Brian, he feels himself settle into the idea of this being a good thing. Some of the tension also melts from Johns rigid shoulders. It is funny how they depend on Freddie for their state of mind. "That means that this is going to be a good thing."

This time it is Brian who tilts Freddie's chin up to run his lips over his, kissing him silent while John puts down the letter. 

"Yeah. We could use good things." 

★☆★

Brian wakes up feeling terribly sore. 

Yesterday numerous tests had been performed on him by his and other doctors in their respective fields. After a day of prodding and picking at him he has a long lay in, only feeling slightly regretful about it when even the warmth of his boyfriends bodies have been erased from their sides of the bed. He rolls over and finds their spots cold. 

One of his legs sticks out from under the duvet, his other is tugged to his stomach. He hums and rubs his face in Freddie's pillow to inhale his calming shampoo scent. 

Whoever remembered to turn the heater on earned themselves a blowjob, Brian muses. 

The house has become terribly empty and Brians life dull since Roger had left it. He makes no hurry to go downstairs and face the day.

He curls his fingers in the pillow, careful with the bandaids around his wrists where his blood was drawn. 

Whatever he did before Roger came into his life is nowhere near as fulfilling as being dared to pick up his guitar again and explain the Jimi Hendrix Experience to someone with a completely clean discography. He misses being woken up to cluttering pans in the kitchen and ringing laughter because of a silly television commercial. Brian remembers the skittish pull in his chest when he heard Rogers bedroom door being opened and Brian dashed out of bed to follow him downstairs. 

There is only silence now, besides the humming of the heater. 

Brian rolls onto his back and pulls his arm over his eyes. The sun peaks between the curtains and falls right on his face. It makes it impossible for him to fall back asleep. 

Eventually he gives up and he drags himself out of the comfort of his bed.

He stretches his arms above his head and stands on his toes until his spine makes a satisfying pop. His fingers fall on his shoulders, he rubs his palms in the sore muscles while shuffles out of the room. 

Brian passes the closet but forgoes a shower or a change of clothes. It isn't good for him to spend the day in the same pajamas he sleeps in, it keeps him in an unfresh sleep-dulled mindset. But to see all their clothes Roger borrowed, neatly hung in their wardrobe is a sore sight. 

Brian avoids it. 

His bare feet drag over the creaking floors while he shuffles down the stairs. 

Once he is on the ground floor he goes straight to the kitchen where either Freddie or John left him scrambled eggs and a slice of bread, but Brian can't stomach either now and after a glance in the refrigerator he pours himself and the cats some souring milk. 

Soft tapping of tiny paws come tittering around the corners. At the sound of their bowls being filled the cats rush their way to the kitchen.

It is the only company Brian gets. 

The five of them struggle over the one bowl. Freddie always insists that they know how share, but Brian amusedly watches Tiffany knock the others out of the way to finish her share first. Brian hums and pours a little more in the bowl when the dominant cat has left the kitchen with a full belly. The others are ecstatic to have their fill too, their ears perked and tails swinging. One by one they leave when sated and Brians temporary distraction is gone too. 

Oscar is the last to finish. He sticks around and rubs himself against Brians leg.

Brian leans against the counter to finish his poor excuse for a breakfast. He pears down at the cat, who is looking back at him with an almost mournful expression if cats can make those. 

"You miss him too, don't you?"

"Meow."

He picks him up and perches him in his the crook of his elbow. Oscar is happy with the attention, even if his face doesn't show it. 

Brian finishes his milk and leaves the glass in the sink. 

He grimaces at the other dirty plates and utensils left to clean. This and the dirty laundry have been silently begging Brian to do his chores, but yesterdays exam has left him on the edge of a mental tumble. Brian forgoes doing any work, the others will forgive him. He isn't sure if the examination was worth the toll, they have done every test under the sun before,to the point of attempted surgery. None of the tests yesterday had been new and whatever hope Freddie had sparked in Brian is gone. 

Brian and Oscar make their way to the living room clinging onto each other. 

The television is off and he doesn't bother opening the curtains or turning on the lights. Instead Brian goed straight to the LP-player. He slinks into a crouch to finds a record to fill the stifling silence.

While he browses he crosses many he had wanted to show Roger before he left. Pinball Wizard by the Who, anything by Johnny Cash, Space Oddity and Janis Joplin. 

It feels almost like betrayal to put any of them on without him.

Oscar meows when Brian falls on his back with a long suffering exhale. He presses the squirming cat insistently against his chest until he stops struggling against the affection. Brian rubs his face between his ears like he has seen Roger do many times before. Oscar doesn't melt in his arms the way he did with Roger, but he stills, which is a small victory. 

The two of them lay there long enough for Brians eyes drift shut again. He is asleep before unpleasant thoughts can plague him. 

When he wakes up the sneaky animal has left.

Brian pushes himself in a sitting position propped on his elbow. He yawns and rubs at his sleep swollen eyes, between his brows forms a thumping headache. The post-nap grogginess leaves an uncomfortable aftertaste in his mouth, the twinge in his shoulder forces a groan out of his chest. He remembers a time where he could sleep all day and party at night, but that Brian seems from a different world. 

He wobbles to the couch and Brian sinks in the heavenly pillows with a relieved moan. 

There he does nothing again.

The clock on the wall tells him it's only 3 pm, hours before his boyfriends are supposed to be home. He can't be bothered getting up again to turn on the television. 

He draws his arms around himself and when he closes his eyes he sees Roger. Eyes wide with unshed tears and his jaw set tight with betrayal. Brian felt it too, when he found out Roger was secretly on his drugs the whole time.

His skin crawls as if a billion spiders burst under his flesh and nestle themselves in each nook of his body. Heat creeps up his face with emotions he can't restrict to his chest. 

Brian could not be trusted to be alone with his own thoughts for too long.

Without further lingering he reaches blindly for a scrap of paper and a pen he knows Freddie leaves on the tableside. He drags the blank sheet into his lap and begins to write without predetermined purpose.

They are words. Some angry, some disappointed. Yet he finds himself pleading about halfway through which then bleeds into a rant of betrayal what also doubles as a confession of some sorts. It is horrifically written and his English teacher would have smacked his fingers with her ruler if she ever got her wrinkly hands on it. 

He'd written Roger before. In fact many times during his stay at the rehabilitation ward. 

None got answered, but none were like this. None were provoking. None of them insisted he'd get better and come back home. 

_I trusted you. Every single day that I trusted you, you stole from me._

_Sorry you did not feel safe enough to tell us._

_I should have understood how deeply hurt you were to find heroin on the streets. We should have offered you more than to keep it a secret from John._

_The house and I are empty without you._

_Come home._

When he finishes writing the page is full, Brian is out of breath. 

He folds the piece of paper up before he gets too tempted to read back what he said. Rationally he shouldn't be giving Roger this to make him deal with Brians emotional outburst, but a part of him, more quiet and hurt, wishes Roger knew what pain he inflected on them when he and his sunshine went away. 

Brian forces himself on his feet. His toes curl in the fluffy carpet as he shuffles to the table that displays Freddie's cat vases. 

In the second drawer he finds the envelopes and stamps. 

With practiced ease he seals the letter and leaves it on the kitchen table to be posted by either John or Freddie alongside their weekly letters to Roger. 

Brian slinks into one of the seats with nothing better to do but stare at the rough dents in the wood on the table from years of use. His ears pick up when the front door swings open and a gush of cold rushes through the house. A January blister has fallen over the country. Brian tugs one foot onto the chair to rest his chin on his knee.

In walks Freddie, hair wet and coat covered in a million tiny white flakes.

"You're home early." Brian manages to utter before his lips are engulfed by Freddie's and his cold nose pushes against his cheek. 

He closes his eyes and relishes in the soft pushback of Freddie's mouth.

A gloved hand runs through his hair, Brian too reaches out to touch to dry Freddie's snow rained face with his thumb. 

"Weather is shit." Freddie exhales calmly. Their foreheads touching. "Clients canceled."

"You'd almost think this depressing weather would make them reach out more."

Freddie hums, lips brushing over the corner of Brians mouth like the precise touch of a feather. He swallows thickly and doesn't care about the rain droplets or cold at all. 

After another stolen kiss, Freddie pushes himself up to fix them a drink. 

Something about his demeanor is concerning. From the tense set of his jaw to the slump of his shoulders. He kisses and smiles, but doesn't seem to be touched. 

Brian watches him work the kettle and grab two cups. His eyes linger on the unwashed dishes in the sink, but he is wise enough not to mention it. 

"How are you feeling?" 

"That's a big question."

Freddie glances at him from over his shoulder, a sad smile om his face. "I meant health wise. Your appointment is in a couple of days, no?"

"Yeah." Brian isn't sure what to tell him. The tests yesterday were nothing revolutionary but he doesn't want to kill Freddie's spirits right now at the dinner table with the snow clattering against the window and the kettle whistling for attention. Brian twirls a strand of hair between his finger. "It was a bit invasive. I feel sore, kinda tired."

"Poor dear."

A cup of tea is put in front of him and a kiss placed on the center of his forehead.

Brian looks up to see Freddie remove his coat and settle in the seat beside his own at the head of the table. His hair has grown long and he neglected shaving, an uncharacteristic carelessness of his looks sets a lump in Brians throat. Freddie looks tired, eyes sunken in his skull and black painted nails chipped around the edges. 

While he drinks his tea with closed eyes and a serene calm now that he is home in the warmth, Brian knows he is still battling a storm inside.

"It is worth a try, I guess. It would be nice if they could knew how to relieve the pain. Maybe I could work again."

Freddie frowns, concern flickers across his eyes. "It must be so dull being at home alone now."

Brian nods. Knowing no way of sugar coating it. 

They all miss Roger and his sunny presence and star striking eyes, but Brian believes he's suffered the biggest loss.

Freddie lays his hand on the table and flips it over to open his palm to Brian.

Brian doesn't hesitate to clasp their fingers together. 

"I keep reminding myself, this situation is temporary. And so must you, darling.

★☆★

"Oh—" Brian pauses as he opens the bathroom door and a cloud of steam passes. "Sorry, are you—?"

"You can come in Bri."

With a relieved smile Brian lets himself inside. He closes the door behind his back to preserve the warmth. He finds John laying in the bathtub with the water filled to the brim. Yesterday he had come home from work past midnight and fallen asleep on the couch with his shoes on. 

In the morning his body hadn't been forgiving. 

Brian drops to his knees and leans on the edge of the tub with his elbows. The luscious aroma of vanilla ointment clings to Johns skin and fills his nose. 

John tips his chin to look at him. His eyes soften. 

"I'm sorry I can't come with you to your doctors appointment tomorrow. I asked for the day off, but—." 

John is a mind reader, some of the anxiety vanishes when wet fingers reach for his. Brian looks at their intertwined fingers and rubs his thumb over Johns knuckles. Noting his lovers hands have gotten raw from manual labor. 

"You can't just drop everything." Brian murmurs quietly. Before craning his neck to catch Johns parted lips in a kiss. "I love you." 

"I love you too." He says calmly.

Brian doesn't lean away and stays where he is. He searched for his company because Freddie is busy making dinner and couldn't be asked to deal with the anxiety for Brians doctors appointment. Maybe it wasn't fair for Brian to invade Johns bathing time, but he couldn't help himself. Not after spending the day without them. 

Their hands held on the porcelain edge and Brians knees on the tiled floor. He doesn't bother keeping his eyes trained on Johns face. His skin glistens with droplets and shines under the water surface. The tub is large enough for him to stretch out his legs and prop up his neck on the other end. They have fit in there together, all three of them, though not as comfortably. 

John is still looking him in the eye. Face suddenly wiped off the calm previously taking him. 

He squeezes Brians hands, chest rumbling. "I miss Roger." He says suddenly. 

The knot in his stomach tightens. Brian forces a smile after brushing a wet strand from Johns forehead behind his ear. 

He kisses Johns turned down lips. Noting his irresponsiveness so he pulls away. 

"Me too." 

John exhales. His breath ghosts over Brians face and his shoulders deflate until he sinks further under the water surface. 

"It was the right thing to do." Brian murmurs. 

After rolling up his sleeve he runs his hand down Johns neck. The bath water is scorching hot. He nearly jumps. 

John gives him an amused snort. Brian flicks water in his face. 

"I know." John sighs. "And I still feel like an utter prick." 

"Want me to make you feel better?" 

Before the words have left his mouth his hand is trailing down Johns chest and travels confidently to his groin. He stills, watching Brian with a dark look in his eyes he gets when his pupils are blown.

"Hmm..."

The sneaky bastard was already semi-hard when Brian wraps his fingers around his cock.

When he looks up again, Johns eyes have closed and his lips are slack with saliva. He hums appreciatively, being touched with care under the water. He turns his hips up and leans his head back. 

Brian lets go of Johns other hand so he can angle his chin sideways and place a lopsided kiss to his irresistible lips.

Swallowing his moan, Brian twists his hand so he can tighten his palm around his length. Blood rushes from Johns body to his cheeks, chest and cock. Even though it is John being pleasured, Brian feels his own worries temporarily slipping away. 

He licks his way into Johns mouth. First tracing the outer plush of swollen skin, before engulfing past his lips.

Johns hands scramble to hold onto something. He settles for the edge of the tub.

Brian jerks his cock with careful pressure. 

He knows how John likes it. How to make him titter over the edge faster than John would dare to tell without slight embarrassment.

While he slides his tongue against Johns, the two of them moaning at the slick sensation, he pushes Johns foreskin back and rubs his thumb over the slit on his cock. 

His hips buckle. He hisses.

Brian swallows it all with the kiss. 

The position is uncomfortable for him but he dares not to stop now that John is fully erect in his hand. His thighs tremble and are spread as far as the bath would allow. 

If they had more time before dinner Brian would have undressed and crawled in with him. Perhaps fucked him. Maybe the other way around.

It has been a while since they had touched each other like this. 

Therefor Brian is unsurprised when John grounds his feet on the tubs surface and a throaty groan makes his cock pulse. 

A short breathless, "Brian." Is all the warning he gets before John cums in thick ropes in the water.

His toes curl and his lips part in a slack 'o'.

Brian takes full advantage to nib on the already swollen skin and pull on his bottom lip with his teeth, dragging it out and kissing it soothingly with small butterfly kisses.

Johns cock continues to pulse. Brian drains every last droplet with his fingers.

"Fuck, Bri." 

Brian shushes him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth and then one on his cheek. Only when he feels John softening does he let go of his spent cock. 

He blinks his eyes open and cleans his hand in the water by shaking it. 

"Jesus." Johns chest heaves as he chuckles, eyes twinkling and muscles melted against the tub in the glow of his release. "That was— nice."

"You were quick." Brian laughs. 

He deserves the water John splashes at him. 

★☆★

There's another two and a half hours before his appointment, but Brian is already in the city center.

People are watching him pace the parking lot of the hospital like a caged zoo animal.

He feels slightly ridiculous walking back and forth in the small space meant for a car. Arms pressed stiff to his sides and face set. But he would feel more anxious waiting inside in the stifling hospital air and enclosing white walls. His heart is already racing at having to face it alone while his boyfriends are forced to work. He doesn't want to expose himself to the environment too early, but would have kicked himself if he were late.

It is early in the day, just past noon his watch reads. His stomach growls because this morning the thought of food made him want to vomit. 

He should have asked the doctors for a different appointment date that either one of his partners could be there to support him. He should have had that yoghurt John suggested he'd eat, because now Brian is feeling dizzy with hunger. He should not have allowed himself hope for this day, now the blood in his veins feels laced with glass trying to poke out from under his skin. 

Brian is hungry and alone. Another glance at his watch. Only two minutes have passed.

More people pass him. 

In wheelchairs, pregnant or old. 

Nobody is alone, but him. 

He couldn't survive another two hours staring down new parents and old couples supporting each other to their cars. 

Across the street he spots a telephone booth. He debates trying to get through this without clinging to his boyfriends, but only seven seconds later he gives in.

Brian shuffles over to the red telephone box on the corner of the parking lot. There is nobody waiting in line, for which he is grateful. The cold bites at his skin, since he had stepped off the bus his fingers had become numb. He struggles dialing the number on the phone, but after several attempts and a number of lost pennies, he pulls through. 

Brian would not usually worry much over appointments, but today his uneasiness has amplified. 

He will have to face the doctors alone and their likely useless test results. 

At four, he will go up to their office and hear them confess there had been a mistake and they cannot diagnose him. He will listen, nod respectfully and thank them for their hard work. He will take it as a man and accept his fate, but now he feels dreadful knowing his future and having to face it all by himself. Knowing truly that after all this time, a diagnosis won't be something he could be hopeful about again.

There is a pain in his stomach that has nothing to do with his supposed illness.

He hunches over and leans against the left wall of the phone booth to wait for someone to pick up on the other line. 

Brian worries the receptionist might be on her break, but after the sixth ring the lines finally connect. 

"Westminster Private Therapy Clinic, Greta speaking."

A rush of relief washes over Brian. He clutches the phone to his ear, smiling. "Greta, hello. It's Brian. I was wondering if you could redirect me to Freddie? I was hoping to catch lunch with him." 

There is a pause on the other line. 

Brian waits. The silence stretching further than socially comfortable. 

"Everything okay?"

There is rustling and then a throat is being cleared. She sounds more sharp now. As if she previously hadn't held the phone properly to her lips.

"Brian. Freddie hasn't worked here since November."

★☆★  
_  
"Doesn't he look precious?"_

_"He looks like, something." Brian snorts._

_Freddie scowls and pulls Roger flush against him to adjust the tip of the feather on his hat._

_Roger beams and wobbles on Freddie's worn platform heels when Freddie begins to sway them on the music. It's an old Elvis record. Brian sits down on the bed with a smile teasing at the corners of his lips. It is almost entrancing how well the others move together. Freddie's hips circle to the rhythm and Roger watches with slight shyness before Freddie twirls him around. The only reason why Roger doesn't topple to the floor is because of Freddie's arms around his waist keeping him upright. Roger clutches onto Freddie's shoulders and his eyes twinkle in delight on each set of their feet._

_It makes for quite the scene, Freddie and Roger dancing to the Sunday noon radio. Rain pouring against the window. Clothes strewn around on the floor._

_Roger is dressed like a slutty pirate. And Freddie is in paint splattered overalls and thigh high socks._

_It is an amusing but puzzling scene to have half Freddie's wardrobe displayed like that on the floor of the bedroom._

_Brian sits against the headboard._

_"What's going on here?" He finally asks._

_Freddie leads them into an easy sway. To Roger he might seem like a professional, but Brian knows he is just winging it. One hand on Rogers hip and the other holding his palm in his._

_Cheek to cheek, Freddie carries them around until he is the one facing Brian._

_"Cleaning out my closet. Getting rid of what I don't wear anymore."_

_Brian frowns, then he takes note of the two separated piles of clothes left by the foot of the closet. One to keep and one to let go. He suspects he looks as baffled as he feels. Freddie is not one to get rid of clothes, always justifying each item in their overflown closet by explaining fashion always comes in cycles. One day something old will be something new._

_"Where is my boyfriend and what have you done to him?"_

_Roger is chuckling, face flushed a pleasant pink from the extrusion. "He had a cleaning epiphany."_

_"Sure he had."_

_Brian catches Freddie's gaze on the next twirl._

_They watch each other, Freddie with Roger pressed tight against him and Brian giving him a questioning raised eyebrow. Freddie's smile grows sad, he closes his eyes and pulls Rogers body a little closer against him. There is mourning in the bow of his head and Brian can only watch in stifling silence._

_Roger rubs his cheek on Freddie's. Sending Brian a reassuring smile._

_Under his breath, Freddie sings._

_"I just can't help believing. When she's whispering her magic. And her tears are shining honey sweet with love."_

_He kisses Rogers ear once he finishes._

_"Okay?" Roger asks quietly, Brian can barely hear him over Elvis._

_Freddie gives him a well practiced smile, nodding. "We should finish with the clothes so we can start sorting through accessories. Keep anything you really like, okay."_

_"Yes."_

_They break apart, though their hands linger on each other._

_Brian watches in horror as Freddie dumps a pile of his once beloved clothes in a plastic shopping bag. He should offer to help, but he is too shocked to get up from where he is rooted to the mattress._

_Whatever is going on in Freddie's mind can't be pretty if it brought him to this point._

_Roger sees him staring and sends him another smile, singing, "Oh I just can't help believing."_

_"It's not a duet." Brian sighs, giving in by taking Rogers hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet and help with the bags. "This time the girl is gonna stay."_

_"For more than just a day." Freddie finishes, pulling Brian in for a chaste kiss._

_Brian drops the ordeal after that._

_Considering that maybe Freddie really just wants to clean out his closet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg! He knooooows.
> 
> (Also the last scene was Freddie gathering clothes to sell at the Stall, foreshadowing lol)
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it. I am so grateful for you all my dears ❤️


	18. Of Clarity and Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crystal evaluates his relationship with Roger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, another 7k baby!!!! Please have a good read. Also reminder of the tags!

Crystal stops in the doorway when he finds Roger standing by his bedside staring at a letter attached to a carton box longingly. 

It has already been opened and checked by staff for illegal contraband, but Roger has firmly folded it shut again. 

He doesn't know Rogers story, but he knows enough to comprehend it's fucking miserable. 

"Open it." 

He startles. In the flash of a moment his muscles go rigid and horror crosses his eyes until their gazes meet and his shoulders drop in relief. 

"Don't want to." Roger lets it go and the box bounces on the mattress. 

Crystal takes that as his invite to sit at the foot of Rogers bed and drag the present in his own lap. _From Freddie to Roger_.

He glances up at his sulking companion. 

"Is it from the ex?" 

Roger nods and continues to fidget with his hands even when Crystal holds his arms out to him. "Open it." 

"No." 

He's like a stubborn teenager. Crystal rolls his eyes. "Are you still angry they left you here?" 

"Don't want to read how they don't want me to come back." 

It doesn't always pay off to push Rogers buttons. He can go from perfectly calm to raging anger and heart wrenching sadness in the span of a sentence. He is tight wounded and keeps his secrets close to his heart, but because the thumping organ is overflown with sorrow, Crystal manages to wrangle out some spilled information on odd occasions. 

He leans back against the wall, challenging Roger with a raised eyebrow. 

"Why would they send you a box of—" Crystal rattles it. "Shoes, if they want you to fuck off? That's a bad fuck-off present." 

Rogers eyes lit up. "You think it's shoes?" 

Too easy.

Crystal snorts, climbs to his feet and shoves the box in his arms. He isn't overly patient today and Roger is slow to pick up on his no-nonsense mood. 

"Maybe you'll know if you open it." He deadpans, clasps Roger on the back, before shuffling out the door on his socked feet. "And don't be late for breakfast again. I like my toast warm." 

★☆★

Roger is a strange and peculiar man. 

Besides the scars, irrational paranoia and reservedness amongst strangers, Crystal sees in his behavior roots of damage worked much deeper than a drug dependency. 

The first time he saw Roger was when he arrived at the ward on wobbling knees and three hours of sleep. Crystal hadn't been particularly interested either until he saw him sit by himself in the common room for the third day in a row, looking equally deadly terrified and bored out of his mind. 

Crystal was always drawn to chaos. It's in his nature.

It took about a week for Roger to crack and drop the shy demeanor. 

Both of them are the devil on their respective shoulders, only there is no angel conscious to balance them out. Crystal wonders if such a force even exists. 

"Fuck."

The vending machine swallows up Crystals coins with a deafening click. He growls at the cursed thing and gives it a kick. "Fucking rubbish." 

"Here." 

Roger shoves his own snacks in Crystals arms. Crystal watches in amazement as Roger jumps and hooks his arms on the top of the machine to tip it forward. When it's tilted far enough Rogers feet land on the ground. He holds the machine up with his hands, arms trembling under the weight. 

"I'm not sure if— Roger!"

A sudden flood of packaged crisps, biscuits and candy bars come tumbling out of the opened metal flap. Crystals jaw drops.

"This isn't exactly light, y'know." Roger grunts. "Grab some and help me put it back." 

He falls to his knees after checking either side of the empty hallway. Crystal grabs two armfuls of snacks and stuffs them in his pants and pockets until he looks about twenty pounds heavier. "You're fucking crazy." He laughs. 

"Thanks."

Crystal helps Roger put the vending machine back in its nook. Roger is red in the face.

They rush back to Rogers room before a nurse or fellow patient can snoop them out. Nearly slipping on their socked feet in their haste to make it from the crime scene. They're laughing, out of breath. It'd been the first time Crystal ever considered Roger is obviously outgoing and secretly crazy. 

Sometimes Crystal likes to slip out of the ward to walk around the hospital. It is part of their privilege as patients of the open ward. He gets to see people who are not addicts, get some fresh air and beg a stranger for a cigarette. 

Roger doesn't like going outside the ward. The furthest Crystal managed to drag him is across the hall to the doors leading to the hospital.

That's where Roger digs in his heels and no further.

"Not even for fresh air?"

"No."

"What are you afraid of?" Crystal groans.

Roger looks uncomfortable. So as per usual he drops it. He always does.

Therefor they spend their days inside, either playing board games or causing trouble. It reminds Crystal of his time in boarding school. Boys will be boys antics that have other patients rolling their eyes and staff chasing them down corridors. 

When one of the patients nod off in the common room, they like to leave messages or doodles on their arms. 

Crystals signature drawing is a penis with saggy balls. Roger draws daisies.

"Pussy." He says. 

Roger nudges him with his shoulder. "Bet yours looks like that." He points at the old man penis. 

If there is nobody asleep to bother, they fixate on staff. Shooting paper balls or nuts in their hair while trying not to be noticed. Or sneaking behind their desk and rearranging just enough items to make staff feels something is off. 

Sometimes they get caught and send away. Other times they grow bored themselves.

They also spend some days reading to each other and talking about music. Crystal always liked the drums and rock. Roger only knows some of the Beatles and sang in choir as a child.

Crystal sneaks in a radio, it's small and the signal is shit, but Roger completely lights up when he presents it.

Ever since they spend at least an hour of the day on Crystals bed reviewing the music on the stations. They find out they have a similar taste and they fall into easy conversations about artists they discover over the radio.

Getting to know Roger is like peeling an onion. There are too many layers and the longer you work on it the more tears there are involved.

"What are you looking at?"

Roger is on his bed, legs leaning vertically against the wall and his upper body on the mattress. 

He glances sideways at Crystal, eyebrows raised.

Crystal smiles at him and without looking away turns up the volume of the music. 

"Lost in thought is all."

"Mhmmm." Roger hums. 

They bond easily and Crystal finds himself caring. Actively caring. Checking if Roger has had his breakfast and didn't skip shower time. He learns how to read his moods and when Roger is having bad days where a hit of heroin would never be denied. Crystal gathers information, fascial expressions and physical reactions to puzzle the pieces of Roger together.

Don't ask him to go outside, he'll close down. 

Don't sneak up on him, he'll go rigid.

Don't put him on the spot in front of people, like in therapy, he'll grow more quiet.

Don't make plans with him and forget to show up, Crystal learned that the hard way.

Don't underestimate him, he'll surprise you. 

Don't mention that everyone is talking about the nightmares he keeps having, he doesn't need the extra pressure.

"Roger."

He always startles when they reach him in the circle even though he should know it's coming, like every support group session. 

Crystal nudges him with his elbow. Roger swallows thickly before sinking further in his chair.

"What was the question?" 

"How was your week?" Adam repeats with a kind smile.

Crystal could smack Roger across the face. If he doesn't participate to the group discussion he doubts they will asses him stable enough to go home any time soon.

Sometimes Crystal wonders if Roger even wants to go home.

"My week was fine."

"How did you spend it? Crystal mentioned you two had been hanging around some."

Roger nods. "Yes we did."

"How has your progress been here? We know you are not a big fan of sharing more intimate details with the group, but we would like to know how you were doing."

It is Adams way of saying Roger has not been doing very well in the sessions and that he should fix his act.

Roger doesn't take to the edge in the therapists tone. He crosses his arms over his chest. 

"I haven't had drugs since I arrived here. That's improvement from before."

"It is indeed." Adam smiles. He barely manages to keep the delight out of his voice now that he got Roger speaking. Crystal sees the others in the circle paying close attention to their usual quiet fellow ward member. "How long have you had a drug dependency?" 

Now Crystal shifts to look at him too. Unashamed in his curiosity.

Roger picks at his skin around his tattoo, shrugging.

"Four, five years."

"So you would have been...?"

"Sixteen." Roger fills in. "I was sixteen when I started."

Adam crosses his leg over the other and sits back in his chair to give Roger the illusion of more personal space. Somehow it works. Roger takes a shuddering inhale and sits up straighter. 

"What was the reason you became dependent?"

Crystal raises his eyebrow. Even when Roger glances at him for a way out, he keeps quiet. The only thing he does is offer Roger his hand, which he takes with a tense exhale.

"My mum died."

"I'm very sorry to hear that." Adam says. "We see it often, that when someone you love dearly dies you naturally attempt to develop a coping mechanism."

"I began when my mum died too." Jennifer across the room says, a reserved smile on her face.

Roger looks at her with an unreadable expression. 

"I'm sorry." He murmurs.

Jennifer smiles tightly. "I'm sorry too, for your mum. What was her name?" 

Adam watches the exchange with even more intent than Crystal. His eyes bopping back and forth as if witnessing a tennis match.

"Winnifred." Roger swallows. "Yours?"

"Elisa."

Crystal gives Roger a proud squeeze when Adam decides it's time to move along when Roger presses his lips in a tight line of promised silence. Roger doesn't talk much for the rest of the day, but he clings onto Crystals hand until they are forced to their separate rooms at nighttime. 

★☆★

Crystal, like everyone else in the ward, has his own set of issues.

In the morning before breakfast he feels as if his bones are grinding together with no joints to soften the friction. His head is too heavy for his neck and skin stretched too tight over his skull. 

Before he decides to disappear he goes by Rogers room. Knocks. And is told by a miserably murmur to come in.

"Hey Rog?"

"Hm?" The other man rolls onto his back to look at him. "What's it?" 

It's not even that early, but Roger seems not to care that the sun is beaming through the window above his bed. Crystal leans against the doorpost. His fingers are sore and his elbows itch. 

"I'm gonna be off this morning. Can't deal with your sorry ass every day."

He means no offense and none is taken.

Roger flips onto his stomach to snuggle his pillow again. "S' fine Chris." 

"Okay. Don't stay in bed all day."

"Hm." 

He closes the door as quietly as he can. It's already 10:43 and he is going to be late.

Inside his room he grabs his sweater to pull over his t-shirt and shoes so he can wander the hospital. Amphetamines are easier to come by than any other drug Crystal can think of. Methamphetamine, though, is a different story. 

Amphetamines is a gateway pharmacy drug. Made for people with chronic pain and other nerve problems. 

When Crystal was prescribed Amphetamines he felt like he could flip a car and jump to the moon. No force in earth could stop him. Invincible. A confidence so severe he'd applied for twelve job interviews and subscribed himself to seven gyms by the time the drugs wore off.

As per usual, when the high stopped satisfying his addictive needs, he needed something stronger.

"Chris."

Crystal swiftly turns and sees the small denim clad man sitting in the waiting chair the furthest from reception as possible. It is his usual dealer, easy to recognize with the cloth over his missing eye. He makes his way over with a casual smile and sits in the seat beside him, offering his hand. 

They exchange the money. Crystal slides him the bills and the man flashes his yellow teeth. 

"Here is your lunch."

In return he is given a plastic wrapped sandwich Crystal wouldn't eat for a million pounds, but inside between the layers of ham and lettuce sit the pills that make his mouth water in need. He glances over his shoulder before he cradles the illegal contraband in his hands. 

Getting drugs inside the facility is easy because of the freedom for patients to wander the hospital. Only close friends and family can come for a visit at the ward, but they get searched for contraband. 

But any dealer can come to the hospital and hand Crystal a unsuspecting lunch package. A big flaw in the wards system. 

Someone could still rat them out here in the open waiting room with sour faced grannies and on edge nurses keeping their eyes out for trouble makers like a one-eyed man and drug addicts. 

Crystal is still stuffing the package in his pants when his dealer gets up to leave. 

"I see you around Crystal. Give me a call when you run out."

There is no use in replying unless he shouts at the back of his greasy head. Crystal likes to imagine he has more dignity than that. 

★☆★

Crystals high is still wearing off when he grows bored and walks to Rogers room later in the day. 

The door is closed but Crystal reminds himself to knock before he sends his friend in a frenzy. While he can't hear Roger give him permission to enter, at least he doesn't get screamed at for coming in.

"Chris?"

"You look like shit today." Crystal snorts at the sight of Rogers uncombed hair and pale face.

Roger sits up in his bed. "You're one to talk." and kicks the covers back for him. 

With his high rapidly wearing off Crystals bones grow heavy underneath his skin and his before hyperactive mind comes to a staggering halt that leaves behind a headache and sore muscles. He drops himself unceremoniously next to Roger. The other man brings the blanket up to their chests again. Both of them sitting up against the metal headboard Roger made comfortable using his pillows and spare blanket draped over the back. His room is very like Crystals, although Crystal does not have a stack of letters piling behind the door. Or a pair of sparkling converse under the sink. 

Roger turns his upper body to look at him. Crystal could attempt to hide his crime, but he lacks energy to care.

"You're high." Roger says.

He shrugs his shoulder. The one that Roger isn't leaning against. 

"Yes I was." 

"How did you get it?" Roger asks a little too swift a little too eager. Crystal can see his pupils dilating in anticipation and there's suddenly life in his otherwise slumped body. 

Crystal wraps his arm around Roger. Pulling their bodies flush against each other. 

"I got it from my guy. He met me in the hospital, I gave him the money, he snuck me my drugs in a lunch package." He explains. "Simple and clean deal."

"You have to hook me up, Chris. I need it."

He sits a little straighter. 

Crystal squeezes his frail bare shoulder. His thumb brushes over the smooth curve down his arm, Roger stays still, eyes wide in longing as he assesses Crystal. 

"Chris. Seriously. What'd you have to do to get it?"

"I can guess what _you'd_ have to so to get it." He shakes his head. Firm and once.

The thought of Roger getting in contact with the persons Crystal gets his poison from is sickening. He has seen what drug lords are capable of on different occasions. It was never enough to scare him away, but always left a blood stained shade over his lenses. 

He likes Roger. Damaged and stubborn and crazy as he is. 

The suggestion of his words have left him quiet again. No longer eager in his need. 

Crystal clears his throat. Nudging Roger with his shoulder to make him look up again, his pointy chin perched on Crystal. 

"It's not worth it anyway."

"I..." Roger takes a shuddering breath. "I've done worse to get my smack. It's been rough here and I've been craving it really bad. If there's any way you know how to—"

"Why don't you iust try to get better? Get out of here and live your life." Crystal interrupts. 

Roger is only taken aback for a flash before he purses his lips. "I could say the same to you." 

"I have been in 7 different clinics in the last year. They tried everything for me. I've been strapped to chairs, beaten, electrically shocked, isolated for weeks, starved and beaten. This clinic," Crystal gestures at the open room. "Is godsend. You should be grateful you're here and not somewhere else. You should take this opportunity to get better, not fuck around with no-good people and the drugs that got you messed up in the first place. What are you thinking asking me where I got my drugs? You can't be serious Roger." 

His nostrils are flaring and he suddenly feels anger he shouldn't be directly pointing at Roger.

But he sees red. He can't help it when he grabs a hold of Rogers arm and grips it tight. 

"Do you hear me? Someone gives a shit about you, because you're here being treated like a princess." It's a an insult, but Rogers face doesn't change.

He stays calm and still. Eyes blinking up at Crystal lazily.

It is easy to fall into a ramble of why he thinks Roger is an absolute idiot, but he can't get himself to push the buttons he knows will cause permanent damage. He bites the inside of his cheek and looks away. His hand slips off Rogers shoulder to hide his face in his palms. 

A lot of pressure has build between his brows. He tries to rub the pain away with his rough trembling hands. 

After a moment long bony fingers wrap around his wrist.

Roger curls his knees to his upper body and rests them on Crystals thighs. He leans in close so Crystal can feel his breath tickling his cheek. 

"Chris. I'm sorry."

He exhales. He puffs out breath until his lungs are dry and empty. Only then he inhales a lungful to answer his companion. "You've got nothing to me sorry for."

"I'm sorry that happened to you. They should have helped you, not abused you."

Roger tugs on his wrist and tries to drag Crystals hand away from his face. Crystal eventually gives in and peeks at him between his fingers. Roger wears a sad smile, but otherwise has no other emotions displayed on his face. He doesn't ask if Crystal had caused trouble or handled illegal contraband that contributed to his bad experience at clinics. He just looks sympathetic and small. Like he understands, in the most fucked up way.

Finally he drops his hands entirely. Roger takes the opportunity to curl his fingers around Crystals. His hands are much smaller than his, but that doesn't make it awkward.

He quirks a smile at Roger. 

Methamphetamine gives him confidence, charm and arrogance. It extends his personality and then amplifies its projection.

It would be easy to blame being this comfortable on the drugs.

But if Crystal were honest with himself, he knew the warm buzz has long worn off and left him shivering, a little cold and feeling hollow, inside scooped out with a rusty bend spoon. 

"I never spoke about that with anyone."

Rogers thumb runs over each tilt of his knuckles. Going down the row and back in a subconscious caress. "Never?"

"No. I've always had this reputation of causing trouble. This gave the impression that everything what happened to me was something I had coming." His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He presses the tip to his front teeth and forced his lips to open again. "My family turned against me. I was left to the mercy of abusive facilities. Who believed me? Who had the authority to let me leave?"

Crystal shakes his head. He doesn't have tears to shed but he still feels barbwire prickle at the back of his throat. 

"I don't tell people, because it's humiliating." He snorts. "I'm a grown man and have not the slightest control of myself. Where it be the drug addiction or the people forcing me to stay. I can't trust anyone."

"You can trust me." Roger says in a quiet voice.

Crystal tips his chin up, smiling slightly despite himself. 

"That's why I told you." 

Roger now too dares to quirk the slightest smile. His eyes reflect beautifully in the shimmering light coming from the window. Crystal gives their interwoven hands the lightest squeeze.

Through his lashes, Roger looks up. 

"There are many people I've trusted. Repeatedly I've been shown that trusting people leads to nothing but despair." 

He says with soft conviction, challenging Crystal to go against him, but Crystal cannot. 

He doesn't know what people have done to Roger, but it wasn't pretty. Cigarette burns, whipping scars and heroin tracks cover his sickly thin body. Crystal is neither a doctor nor a psychics but he can draw his own conclusions. 

"I can't talk for anyone else," Crystal starts, holding Roger close. "But you can trust me." 

"I think I do." Roger says slowly. 

He assesses the words while he voices them. Picking each with surgical precision, in their hold Rogers fingers grow clam with sweat.

It takes a moment for Crystals drugged up brain to catch on when Rogers eyes drop to his lips.

He is suddenly hyperaware of all the points where their bodies touch. Rogers legs in his lap, his fingers are intertwined with Crystals, their chests are pressed flush against each other and his breath ghosting over Crystals face. 

He runs his tongue over his chapped lips, the sun catches in the wet reflection. 

Rogers eyes fall closed, his free hand falls onto Crystals shoulder and in the next moment he pushes himself up to press their lips together. 

It has been months if not years since Crystal last felt lips warm and tender against his own.

The pleasant touch sends sparks to his stomach and heat coils in his underbelly. All the oxygen is sucked out of the room, leaving pleasant lightheadedness around. Still. He puts a hand on Rogers shoulder to push him away.

Their lips disconnect with a soft smack and a gasp. 

A pair of terrified dazed blue eyes meet his.

Crystal shakes his head and smiles, _no, this isn't right._ He clasps Rogers hand underneath his own when suddenly tension seeps into Rogers frail shoulders and he looks away to hide the shame that washes over his features. 

Crystal goes back to caressing his thumb over the back of Rogers hand. 

He keeps his eyes trained on his face. When he can't see Roger through his hair, he brushes the strand behind his ear. 

"Have you ever tried to just be friends with someone?" Crystal asks. "Just friends?" 

When Roger shakes his head, Crystal understands what this was about. 

His face softens at Rogers reddened cheeks.

Drugged up or not, Crystal feels heartbroken for him.

"Okay." Crystal nods and clasps Rogers hand. "Let's practice on that."

Roger raises his eyebrows in surprise. Crystal snorts at the unbelieving reaction to his calm rejection.

"What? You thought some meaningless kiss would make me run away in horror? Please." 

With an embarrassed groan Roger leans forward to hide his face in Crystals shoulder. Crystal shakes his head and pats his back while the shame sets in. He leans against the headboard with a gruff sigh to allow Roger to reflect on whatever just transpired. 

They both sit in the quiet of each others company. Rogers relaxes against Crystal again and Crystal pinches his shoulder. 

"And Jesus Christ Roger, call your fucking boyfriend."

★☆★  
 _  
"Hey you."_

_"Hey."_

_Roger hadn't noticed he was staring so obviously that the stranger would notice. He quickly drops his gaze to draw little attention to himself._

_The tall, straight jawed man leans against the brick wall next to Roger._

_"Can I offer you a fag?"_

_Roger glances sideways at him and takes the offered cigarette between his lips. "Thanks."_

_He cups his hands around the mans lighter to burn up the head._

_"I've been seeing you around here a lot." The man puffs around his own cigarette butt. "Isn't it a bit of a rough neighborhood for a pretty thing like you?"_

_Roger snorts. He is on his break inbetween clients hanging out at the slightly buzzing pub area where he knows he won't stand out for police and can take a breather from his nightly activites. The man beside him is one of the bar tenders, pressumably also on his break. He always comes out the back door of the Blue Dragon bar on the street corner. It is only a five minute walk away from Menom road. Roger has taken to the comfortabley cool brick wall against his sweat soaked back to revive._

_"Suits me well, I suppose."_

_He inhales the smoke until the thickness filters into his lungs. He exhales through his nose. The man is watching him with a curious glint in his striking green eyes._

_"Just be careful out there."_

_"I know how to handle myself, you know." The corner of Rogers lip lifts despite himself._

_He suddenly doesn't feel quite as cold under the heated graze of the smiling man. "I see, well, I might come to you for protection then."_

_"You sure could."_

_They finish their respectvie cigarettes and then another in silence. Roger finishes his first and crushes the rest butt under his converse. He isn't sure what to say while he is still being watched when he pushes away from the wall to leave._

_His arm is grabbed, Roger turns back to the man and glances at where they are connected._

_"Sorry I— I never caught your name?"_

_Roger pauses, indeed, he never gave him his name._

_Richard certainly wouldn't approve of the interaction between him and a strange man that isn't paying for Rogers time. But something in his hesitation makes Roger smile back._

_"I'm Roger."_

_"You look like a Roger." He chuckles with jittering nerves. "I'm Ralph."_

_The church clock reads past midnight and rush hour has begun. Roger really has to leave._

_He nods at Ralph, with his dashing smile and long brown hair. Roger is unsure of what to say, so he doesn't say anything. He walks away with his arms around his waist and shivering in the early autumn cold. He has been working as a prostitue for Richard for nearly a year now, but he still hasn't gotten used to the freezing nights in his ratty clothes._

_He doesn't think more of the interaction._

_★☆★_

_The next day Ralph is there before he is. Standing against the same wall as yesterday at the same hour._

_Roger hides his limp coming from the hotel with a client weighing nearly twice as much as he. He made a small fortune letting the man abuse him for a good hour or so. The bruises will fade, he wonders sometimes if the humilation will too._

_"There you are." Ralph has two cigarettes between his lips, one of which he hands to Roger._

_He smiles when Roger puts it in his mouth unpromptedly._

_"Nearly thought you wouldn't show up again. Woulda missed your pretty face."_

_Roger has had his eye on this man for as long as he used the pub area for his resting place. He is rich in his looks, unlike Richard he has a reservedness about him that is hard to resist. He stands a respectful distance apart from Roger and there is something in his eye for him that is not lust filled._

_He inhales sharply, leaning against the wall with his foot and back. "Stop flattering me." He says without any heat._

_He is unsure how to react to flirting and easy smiles._

_The only person to ever treat him like that was Richard, in the beginning. Roger is only 17 but he hadn't thought anyone but Richard would approach him with such intentions again. Not for anything but sexual favors. It is a nice feeling. Butterflies flutter in his underbelly and his cheeks heat up under the undeserved attention._

_"I can hardly help myself." Ralph chuckles at the sight of him, noting. "You're blushing."_

_"No I'm not!"_

_Roger covers his cheeks with his hands, unable to contain his own laughter._

_Ralph is in his late twenties, perhaps early thirties. Roger lacks in years and experince with love compared to him, but he feels comfortable and wanted. He chastisies himself for feeling attachment after only a second meeting, but he's had his eyes on his tall dark figure for longer than that. He wonders if this is as important to Ralph as it is to him. He wonders if he can trust him. Richard would say no, but Richard doesn't trust anyone who isn't part of the Bull Crew. His tattoo free arm tells Roger that Ralph is not involved in the London underground gangs and not part of a rival gang trying to lure Roger into trusting him._

_Still, Roger makes sure to keep his jacket sleeves rolled down and his money hidden deep in his pockets._

_He doesn't need to know he is part of a gang. He doesn't need to know he is a prostitute._

_"So you up working late again?"_

_"Uhu." Roger says, not revealing anything. Ralph raises his dark bushy eyebrows. "How about you? Night shifts your thing?"_

_"I work at the Blue Dragon Bar on the corner there. If you ever come over I can offer you a free drink y'know." He shoots his shot._

_He watches Roger, who shrugs._

_"Shoulnd't really drink during work hours."_

_Ralph nods, still with the everlasting smile on his face. "Fair enough."_

_"Yeah."_

_The comfortable silence remains. He is not pushed to say anything else and Ralph ventures his eyes over him freely. Admiration in his gaze. "You stay safe out there, yeah?"_

_Again Roger says, "Yeah."_

_He wonders if Ralph knows what he does for a living._

_Prostitution and drugs is all Roger accounts for. He feels unworthy of something as simple as a pair of cigarettes. The filth of his job is unwashable and even now he tastes a strangers bitterness in his mouth and lube sticking to his inner thighs._

_When he pushes back from the wall, Ralph takes two steps too, as if to follow him._

_"No." Roger turns to him with a firm head shake._

_Ralph stops walking along with a huff._

_"Will I at least see you on Thursday? Here at twelve?"_

_While hope has always been something crushed under an iron sole, Roger still feels it under a thin cloak of doubt held over his heart._

_"Okay."_

_"Good," Ralph smiles gleefully. "That's good."_

_★☆★_

_The next time Ralph bought a spare pack of cigs which he slides in Rogers pocket upon arrival._

_"Keep it." He says. Roger can't say he doesn't find it flattering._

_Since that day he never comes empty handed. He either has a sole flower for Roger, cigarettes, a lighter, biscuits and pieces of poetry cut out of papers._

_Each time Roger stands a little closer to Ralph. Sharing his shadow and his heat._

_Until now nobody from the gang had figured out where he is during these blissful minutes five times a week. Roger doesn't even share him with Imogen or Janice. This is his secret. Ralphs smile and the jittery feelings that keep him from hating his life._

_"Are you okay?" Ralph asks one night._

_"Yeah." Ralph has a hand on his shoulder, his hand is a comfortable weight on him. Roger leans into his touch with easy trust. "I was just— you're very charming. Men usually aren't."_

_"Has nobody ever told you how precious you are?"_

_Roger allows his chin to be tilted and tipped from side to side so Ralph can run his eyes over his features._

_A thumb brushes over the edge of his lip. Roger swallows._

_"You're very beautiful. Sinfully beautiful. I grow speechless sometimes."_

_"You're just messing with me." Roger whispers, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from keening under the praise._

_Ralph isn't phased by the doubt and continues to stroke his face._

_"Now, why would I do that?"_

_"Dunno. Fun and games. People have done worse."_

_"I mean it, I think you're extremely good looking. I could just—" He snorts, squishing Rogers cheeks together. "Squeeze you."_

_"Please don't."_

_He keeps his hands tucked to his own chest. He allows his own eyes to wander over Ralphs muscular chest sharp features. He is good looking. Rogers mouth waters._

_"What if next time," Ralph whispers. "I rent us a room up in the motel down the block." He leans in closer. Rogers breath catches in his throat and his heart skips a beat when hot air graces over his earshell on each low rumbled word coming from Ralphs chest. "And I will show you how fucking beautiful I think you are?"_

_As if Rogers knees weren't already wobbling, Ralph growls and nibbles at Rogers earlobe._

_His raging 17 year old mind goes haywire._

_Rogers hips buckle forwards against Ralphs with a breathy moan. He is stilled and pushed to a respectful distance by the taller man smiling down at him._

_"Not in public. I want to take you apart where I have free reign. Where I can make you understand what you're doing to me— what you have been doing to me these past few weeks. It's been all I can think about. I go to work hoping to see your pretty face to help me through my day."_

_Rogers face heats up._

_That's exactly what he is feeling too. A warmth unbeknownst to him bursts from his chest to the rest of his body._

_He peers up at Ralph, eyes twinkling in delight._

_"Do-do you seriously mean that?"_

_"Of course." Ralph brushes his thumb over Rogers lips. His rough tip feels heavy on his slack lips. Green eyes spark up at having free reign touching Roger like that. His gaze grows dark and clouded. He focuses solely on Roger and his parted mouth. "I've never meant anything more in my life."_

_"Let's do it then. I want to do it. Tomorrow at the motel down the block? This time?"_

_His eagerness is met with a delighted smile._

_Suddenly he is pulled in for a gentle peck on the lips. Both brief and tender simultaneously._

_"Yes, I'll make sure the room is paid for. Just make sure to be there."_

_"Okay." Roger breathes, still dazed from the kiss._

_"Okay."_

_He is send off with another kiss on each cheek and one to his lips that lingers. Roger is lightheaded when he returns to Menom road to continue working. At night he can't sleep and in the morning he can't eat. He is too occupied feelings a strange warmth deep inside of him._

_And Ralph? Ralph feels the same._

_★☆★_

_"There you are."_

_Ralph meets him in the lobby with an open arm. Roger plasters himself against his side as they make their way to the elevator._

_His looming presence is ever calming. With a hand on his lower back Ralph leads Roger to the rental room on the second floor. Roger waits for the taller man to open the door with the key. It swings inwardly and Ralph gestures for Roger to go in first._

_While Roger is familiar with the layout of the rooms at the hotel, but today it seems different._

_The dated curtains are charming, the dark dirt colored carpet is warm, the bed isn't small but cozy and the humidity is stifling heat._

_Two hands land on his shoulders. Ralph stands behind him after closing the door._

_"You like the room?"_

_Roger struggles to find the words when Ralph starts undoing the buttons on Rogers coat. A blush rises to his cheeks. A kiss is places to the nape of his exposed neck when his hair is pushed over one shoulder._

_"Yes. Thank you."_

_"Just want you to be comfortable."_

_His voice is deep and raspy with want. When Rogers coat slips off his shoulders to the floor, he is spun around and walked backwards to the bed. He lets Ralph take the lead now and when he connects their lips again._

_Roger feels cherished by the manner of which he is held and cradled. As if he were something precious._

_Ralph kicks off his shoes while holding onto Roger tightly. Their tongues slide against one another and their noses bump together by accident. They both chuckle it off._

_Eventually Roger is pushed back onto the mattress._

_Everything moves fast after that._

_Roger never before enjoyed the touch of another man that wasn't Richard. But even he didn't know how to play Roger like Ralph can. His lips trail down Rogers neck and collarbone. Nibbling and grazing his teeth over the sensitive skin._

_His rock hard cock is grinded against through his jeans, but soon the clothes are pulled down his ass and thrown to the side._

_He admires the sight of Ralphs bare chest and sizable cock._

_"Touch me." Ralph bites Rogers bottom lip. Making him gasp. "Touch me with your pretty hands while I prep you."_

_"Okay."_

_Roger suddenly feels like he can breathe again. This he knows. How to twist his palm over his pulsing cock and gaze up through his eyelashes._

_What he doesn't understand is skipping heartbeats and feeling fire in his underbelly._

_"Good boy you are. You're so fucking hot. It's sinful."_

_Rogers legs are spread apart._

_He feels exposed in his nudity. He whines, hips buckling, but Ralph holds him down before he decides to start prepping Roger with the vaseline he brought along himself._

_A gentleman._

_"You're so beautiful. Touch my cock, Roger. Keep going."_

_Roger clamps his legs around Ralphs waist. Nodding in his eagerness to comply. "Yes. Yes, please."_

_He is given another kiss on the lips. This one to silence him while Ralph prods a finger inside._

_In no time Roger is fingered open and bearing down on Ralphs vaseline coated digits. He struggles keeping down his moans, but with Ralphs lustful eyes on him and stone hard cock in his hands, he doesn't feel self conscious._

_"I'm gonna fuck you now." Ralph growls in his ear. "I'm gonna fuck you. I'll show you how badly I want it."_

_"Please. Please I— Ahh."_

_Ralph keeps his thighs spread apart when he seats himself inside of him._

_While he too takes a moment to adjust, he is more patient and slow than clients are. He looks Roger straight in the eye with that damned smile of his. He stays seated, Roger gets used to the weight._

_"M-move." He digs his fingers in Ralphs back. "Please, you feel so good."_

_"Fuck."_

_His hips buckle forward. Ralphs chuckles breathily and sets a pace to rut into Rogers heat. "Fuck you're even better like this. Impaled on my cock, you're so beautiful."_

_Roger tries to keep his eyes open but he cannot. The pleasure of someone attractive and tentative taking him apart with such care is almost too much. There is no reason for Roger to hide the gain he gets from their connection. There is no shame in feeling an orgasm pool in his stomach._

_Ralph picks up his pace. Thrusting short and hard into Roger. Their hips slapping together on each push._

_"You take me so well. Fuck. Look at that face. Yes."_

_"Ralph."_

_Roger smiles through the pleasure, feeling ecstatic. Light as a feather. Heavy like a heart being shown true passion that leaves his toes curling in the bedding and his heart racing against his ribs._

_Ralph comes with a long drawn out groan and his hips stuttering against Rogers._

_Roger follows him over the edge when his seed fills Roger and the thought makes him tumble over._

_He is being watched as the orgasm of a lifetime washes over him. He is aware that he is moaning and shuddering. Warm lips nibble at the sensitive skin between his shoulder and neck. Ralph waits until he sinks back into the bed with a long sigh before he pulls his rapidly shrinking cock out._

_It's a lot._

_Roger struggles regaining his breath after his orgasm._

_He throws an arm over his eyes and chuckles. That couldn't have been longer than a couple of minutes. And that's being generous._

_When he feels Ralph climbing off on top of him he lowers his arm._

_The other man walks to the middle of the room in his naked glory. Roger watches him with a fond smile, thinking he is fetching them a post sex cigarette when he searches the pockets of his discarded trousers._

_Roger rolls onto his side when Ralph sits back on the edge of the bed, fishing through his wallet._

_"How much will it be?"_

_Roger pauses for the fraction of a second. He looks Ralph dead in the eye, waiting for him to say it's a joke._

_But it's not._

_His stomach drops._

_A sudden flood of tears edges on the brim of his eyes. His voice doesn't waver despite the dread that's fallen upon him. Roger, despite his weakness, holds up his chin. "Ten pounds."_

_"Here."_

_The germs on the crumbled bills seep into his palm. Roger never wanted to peel his skin off his bones and scrub it clean inside out as much as now. Not until today. Nausea builds at the back of his throat and his hands shake picking up his articles of clothing from the floor with hot flaming shame hanging over his naked frame. The client watches him get dressed without cleaning up first. Not in the bathroom. Not with tissues. His first concern is to get as far away from him as possible._

__Why did you think anyone wanted you? Did you really think he felt anything for you that goes beyond that of his physical needs. No. He doesn't. You thought he brought you here to show you how much he loves you? For weeks he has known you're a prostitute. It's written all over your face. You disgusting utterly gullible fuck-up. Nobody in their right mind would give you the time of day if it weren't for their need to fuck you. Put you down where you belong. Richard told you. He told you a man could never look past their physical needs for you. You should have listened to him before you let him fuck you. Before you moaned for him, gave him the perfect little show. Slut. You disgusting cock sucking slut. __

_When Roger is dressed he shoves the bills in his pocket._

_The other man hasn't moved an inch since handing Roger the money. The sudden shift in atmosphere left him quiet._

_Without looking back, Roger drags his coat over his shoulders and slams the door shut._

_He is proud of himself for keeping his tears at bay until he is out on the streets. He leans against the brick wall of the motel and retches his guts out. Still feeling Ralphs lips on his tingling neck and his sperm drying between his cheeks._

_Trust, Roger thinks bitterly as he spits bile on the sidewalk, trust is nothing but a means for manipulation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sad memory of young Roger. Also if u read carefully you see that Crystals drug dealer is the man with the one eye who let Freddie into Richards apartment when Roger had disappeared (a long time ago)
> 
> Also guys feel free to hit me up on tumblr. Send asks and prompts and anything! @emmaandorlando


	19. Of Letters and Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger takes the next step in his recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATR!!! Fun fun fun Chapter to write hehehe

_—There isn't a day that passed by in which we do not miss you. The ward let us know that coming next week you are allowed to receive mail. The holidays were a dull affair without you. **All of us**. _

_— So deeply sorry we parted in such a manner. I could so clearly see the hurt in your eyes and I felt it in my heart too. I understand you need time to gather your thoughts, but please give us a call when you can. I will leave the number at the bottom of the page. **Freddie**._

_— We hope you like the present dear ♡ You are deeply missed. **Freddie**._

_— Very lonely without you. You filled in a hole in my life I didn't feel until you left a gape again. I hope you are doing okay. Come back home. **Brian**._

_— I want you to know I don't have any regrets. Nothing. Not the kiss, not bringing you home, not sending you to rehab. This is just an intermission before you come back and plan a future together. The way I think we all fit together, if you'll still have us. **John**._

_— Please respond with anything, if only just an empty envelope to let us know you are okay. **All of us**._

_— We miss you. Please call us._

Roger flips through the letters as fast as his eyes can carry across the pages. He is causing crinkles and creases on the paper but he is too entranced to care.

His heart swells at every ink drop of desperation and smears across the scribbles where they hasted through their writing. 

He sits cross legged in the middle of his bed surrounded by ripped envelopes and unfolded letters.

The words on the page he is holding blur when his eyes fill with tears.

There is a rush of overwhelming emotions he cannot comprehend and wouldn't know how to share with others even if he tried. How could he ever explain to Dominique that a near decade of prostitution and drug abuse caused him to lower his self worth so significantly low that he would never fit in the perfection that is John, Brian and Freddie. How could he explain to her his perplexion at their continuous acceptation despite everything he has put them through which they know of. 

It doesn't make sense to him, but it is true. His heart swells so much there is hardly space in his chest for air.

"So you've finally done it?"

Roger wipes his cheeks with his sleeve when Crystal enters the room looking too smug with himself as he takes note of the mess on Rogers bed. Despite his pride, Roger lets out a wet chuckle as he gathers a bunch of letters to his chest. 

"They want me back. They said so themselves! Chris, they miss me." 

"Hallelujah." He says dryly. Struggling to contain a smile that tries to match Rogers enthusiasm.

He doesn't move to sit down on the mattress next to him, so it must be time for breakfast. Roger hadn't shut an eye since last night when he decided to tear open the very first letter he'd gotten from Freddie. Then the next, and the next— until the first rays of sunlight fell through his window and birds sang in celebration of the morn. 

"How much does it cost to make a phone call?" He asks suddenly. 

Crystal quirks up his left eyebrow, shrugging. 

"Nothing you can afford." 

★☆★

"Here, it’s enough for maybe two minutes so use it wisely."

Roger beams when Crystal shows him the coins in his hands before putting them in the phone booth. The ward only has two phones for patients and they had to wait in line for over an hour after the breakfast rush to access one, because apparently there are no rules on how long the phone calls can last.

All the while they were waiting Roger has struggled keeping still. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He rubs his sweaty palms dry on his trousers but he's already soaked the letter from Freddie with the home phone number on it with his damp fingers. 

When Crystal finishes inserting the little coins, Roger quickly types in the ten digit number. 

"Don't be nervous." Crystal says unhelpfully and thrusts the phone in his hand.

Rogers breath catches at the sudden weight of responsibility. He looks at Crystal with wide eyes when indeed the low beeping tone echoes from his left ear to the other.

His chest feels too tight. He struggles with his balance and uses the wall to support his trembling knees. He keeps staring at Crystal who is staring back at him with a disapproving frown.

"Roger." He warns, but it's too late. 

"I-I can't do this."

The phone stops beeping and Roger swears his heart skips a beat at the first crackling of the connection. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and he pushes the phone away from his ear when he hears Freddie's soft voice come through the receiver. Overwhelmed with emotions Roger shakes his head and gives the phone to an exasperated Crystal. 

Crystal, an actual angel, sighs deeply and rubs his forehead while he holds the phone to his own ear. 

"Hello?" He murmurs. 

"Who's this?" 

Crystal holds the phone tilted so Roger can inch closer and hear what is being said as well. He has his arms tucked to his chest and he bites on his finger until there are small dents in the skin caused by the pressure of his teeth. Crystal, after getting over the initial irritation, places an arm around Rogers shoulder to keep him close. Roger rests his cheek against Crystals chest, but his ears are pitched. 

"Crystal Taylor, friend of Rogers. Is there any chance you can come for a visit tomorrow? Roger will let reception know you're coming." 

Roger waits anxiously with his eyes darting across the tiled floors when Freddie pauses.

"I— wait. You mean that?" Freddie stammers. 

"Yes you can either come to reception to schedule a visit one day beforehand yourself or Roger can." Crystal continues to explain casually. He tightens his arm around Roger as they listen to Freddie scrambling for a piece of paper and a pen.

"What time?" 

"Whatever works, they'll call Roger down when you arrive— look, I only got a minute or less left on this call." 

"Is he okay?" Freddie asks quickly before their time runs out. "Why couldn't he call?"

"He's perfectly fine, just a bit shy all of a sudden, he can hear you though. Say Hi." 

Freddie gasps. "Roger?"

Involuntary tears jump into Rogers eyes again and his own voice gets stuck in his throat at the sound of Freddie's affectionate rasp. Crystal watches him part his lips but nothing comes out. He gets a soothing back rub in return.

"Roger dear," Freddie continues, unbothered. "I'll come visit you tomorrow. I'll be there for lunch time. I'll be there, okay?"

He rubs his running nose discreetly with the sleeve his shirt, but Freddie still catches the sniffle.

"Don't cry, Dear. I swear I'll be there. I—"

**Beep**

"Disconnected." Crystal says abruptly when the line goes dead. It is all over too soon. The sudden quiet shatters Rogers heart and then it swells again. Crystal pushes the phone back into it's hold and drags Roger away from the phone so the next person in line can take their call.

Roger hadn't realized how bad he was physically shaking until Crystal pushes him against the next available wall where Rogers knees give out and he slides to the floor in a curled up ball. He hides his face in his hands until the sound of his deafening heart beat stops overwhelming him. 

"Hey, come on now." Crystal crouches down next to him. "It wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I couldn't even say anything."

"Oh yes you were a true embarrassment," Crystal chuckles, and gives Rogers shoulder a playful push. "I meant myself, watch out or I might be stealing him from you."

He is still on the edge of hyperventilating, but the joke loosens him up enough to take a shuddering breath that breaks the rapid pattern. 

Crystal is a solid presence beside him. Roger leans in the comfort of the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

"He does like brunets." Roger sniffles after a long moment has passed.

Crystal snorts and keeps his hand on Rogers shoulder while he regains a regular breathing pattern.

People walk past them without batting an eye. It wouldn't be the first or last time someone has a little breakdown in a drug dependency ward. Especially not after a phone call. 

"It's good you're taking this step, Rog. At some point you'll have to leave this place."

He pushes his forehead against his knees and he sighs. "I know."

The thought of leaving for the first time doesn't bring a sickening twist to his gut. Now he feels a rush of hope and possibility. Maybe he gets to go home? Maybe he gets to live a normal life, get a job, sleep in the same bed as Freddie, John and Brian, learn how to cook, maybe go to school, play an instrument, get a library membership—

"There he is." Crystal smiles when Roger lifts up his chin. He nods in approval. "Shit isn't easy, but all you have to do is show up tomorrow with that dazzling smile and those sparkling shoes, how could he ever resist?"

Roger shrugs, unable to contain a smile from spreading across his already flushed face. _Tomorrow he is going to see Freddie_. 

Warmth bursts from his chest to the rest of his body, despite the lack of sleep he's had last night he feels a rush of energy travel through his veins and everything falls into a completely different perspective when the future is not a daunting prospect anymore. 

"He couldn't." Roger suddenly says. "He said he wanted me back, he wrote that. He couldn't." Crystal nods a great length, before helping Roger to his feet again so they can stop blocking half the corridor. 

"Damn straight he couldn't!"

★☆★

"So, tomorrow is a special day."

Dominique closes the dairy on her lap before she hands it back to him.

Roger sits on the sofa opposite of her, he smiles slightly, nodding yes. He takes the diary from her to tug back against his chest. "Freddie is coming to see me. It's gonna be just him, but in the future the others might come too— but for tomorrow it's just gonna be him, I think. I'm a bit nervous."

"What is it that makes you nervous?"

"That I will somehow ruin this." He admits. "I'm full of energy, it's all anger and panic and all because I'm afraid that even now, I'll mess up." 

He takes comfort in her frantic scribbling in her orange booklet. She makes a hand gesture for him to continue, but Roger is unsure what else to say. When she looks up at him expectingly, he shrugs. 

Dominique hums. 

"Both anger and panic come from the same root emotion, which is fear. Fear is something you have struggled with a lot." 

"Yes." Roger needlessly confirms. Dominique taps the top of the pen against her closed lips. 

"I want to teach you better coping skills for each outlet of fear, which will help you in your daily life, for tasks considered simple by many, but perhaps are now an obstacle for you. Phone calls, a walk outside, conversations with strangers." While Dominique has taught him the basics of taking of taking deep breaths and counting down to zero in his head in German for cases of either panic or anger attacks, they never fully dived into the subject, because Roger was and still is reluctant to get to the bottom of his troubles with her. 

He looks at her again. Observing that she looks different. 

Her eyes are free of her usual makeup today, instead she wears a striking red lipstick Roger had never seen her with.

Perhaps she has a date tonight, he muses, which would also explain the fresh haircut. 

"It is important for me understand where your fears come from in order to give tools to protect yourself from the angst crippling you." She leans forward in her chair. Roger bites on the inside of his cheek and gives up on eye contact, because her intense gaze makes it hard to keep his lips sealed. "You never told me about that nightmare you had." 

Roger traces the flower pattern on the sofa with his index finger. The fine embroidery tickles his fingertip. 

She is a woman of patience. Crossing her legs. Settling back in her chair. And waiting.

The silence is not unpleasant, but the twist in Rogers gut is. He avoided telling her about his vivid night terror in which Richard had found him and violated him until he was unrepairable even by the worlds most renowned surgeon. The words, like when he was with Freddie on the phone, are stuck in his throat and echo freely through his mind. Again and again he hears Richard say, 

_"I got you, in the end. Didn't I?" And "I know where you are."_

"Roger?" 

Rogers head shoots up to look at Dominique. Her dark features are instantly calming. She sees more than he can in people, and frowns sympathetically as she halts to write in her orange book again. "Where did your mind go?" 

"To the nightmare." He murmurs. 

He feels cold all of a sudden. Like his body temperature dropped by 20 degrees. 

Roger wraps his arms around himself even though he is wearing one of Crystals grey sweaters. 

"What was it that you dreamt of?" 

"I don't want to tell you."

He pauses and goes tense when the words have already left his blabbering mouth. Dominique looks equally baffled for a second before she recovers with a slow, understanding nod. 

She closes her book with a feminine carefulness that Roger dearly admires. She puts the notebook on the armrest beside her.

"What about off the record?" She asks. "Because Roger— your boyfriend taking you back is not the end of your problems. It is a lovely thing, to have people who support you, but one must rely on themselves. How can I give you the tools to help yourself when you don't tell me what your problems entail? How can I approve to let you leave after however many weeks of being here, when your fear management has not been taken care of?" 

She is responsible for his release date. Crystal told him that his personal therapist would be, but the words still come as a surprise. 

He owlishly blinks at her. 

"You won't let me leave unless I talk to you about my nightmares? That's not my addiction. I don't understand..."

"If you don't learn how to cope with your past, you will fall back into your old coping mechanism. Which is drugs, which is why you're here, because I don't want to see you go out that door and come back three months later." 

She must have seen in his eyes the horror he feels inside, because she sighs, leans over and places a hand on his knee.

"Focus on your meeting tomorrow, okay? We can discuss what happened in the next session, write it down in your diary, you know the drill. And if," She continues with a patient smile. " _If_ you feel up to it, write down what your nightmares are about and whatever else you think might be worth discussing with me. Or your support group, if you are ready for either. It can be the smallest thing." 

Roger glances up at the clock above the door and sees their time is almost up, luckily, because he is starting to feel uncomfortable. 

"I don't have to?" He asks.

Dominique exhales through her slightly parted cherry red lips. "No I would never force you to tell me anything. This is for you and your recovery. Not for me." 

He closes his hand over his mouth again and curls his knees to his chest. 

It is somewhat tricky. 

After their many sessions he has learned to trust Dominique and her wise no-nonsense ways. What he doesn't like is how hard he struggles against her persuasive work to get him to open up. His trust in her could backfire and often he thinks she knows too much already, even though she claims to need more in order to help him effectively. 

"Consider it, okay?" Dominique smiles, as if his release date doesn't depend on it. "No pressure."

"And what if what I tell you is really bad? You'll keep me here forever." Or call the police. 

Roger scratches over his tattoo covered gang mark. 

Dominique shakes her head. "As lovely as you may be, I doubt we would want you to stay forever. Now," 

She clasps her hands and grabs her orange booklet again, as if they finished speaking of discreet off-the-record business and will now continue with the regular program. 

"Tell me what you're expecting from seeing Freddie and perhaps in the future other friends and family." 

He gladly talks to her about something light and that has yet to happen. Momentarily he forgets that his journey here is apparently long not finished, even if the others want to take him back.

★☆★

"How are you feeling?" 

"Fine." Roger says after a pause. "Nervous."

For the second night in a row he hasn't shut an eye and his reflection staring back this morning in the plastic mirror above the sink was a grim representation of a man living on adrenaline bursts and the coffee Crystal so graciously brought him from the canteen. 

"You're fine." Crystal says while he drags Roger around the next corner by his wrist. 

At exactly 12 o'clock Roger was called to the visitors hall by the purple dressed receptionist. He'd almost expected Freddie to cancel, but that wouldn't actually be something Freddie would do, only if Roger messed it up somehow. 

"All you've got to do is be yourself y'know."

"And what does that mean?” Roger groans miserably. 

“Dunno, just sounded like the thing a wise person would say. So you’re welcome.” 

If Roger were some kind of lizard that could grow back a limp, he'd be sorted. But Crystals hold on his arm is iron strong. He strides Roger across the dependency ward to the visitors hall which Roger had never been to before.

They cross the painting corridors where he had come through during the switch between DDU1 and DDU2. 

"I'm not sure if I can do this." He murmurs.

Crystal marches on. Barely sparing Roger a look over his shoulder when he holds open another door. "You told me you would say that," He says and wriggles through the opening himself. "You also told me not to listen when you would get like this."

"I know." Roger murmurs.

But that doesn't mean that now the moment has come so close he is not getting hot flashes which causes his shirt to cling to his back and wet spots to appear through the soaked fabric. 

It can't be much further away now. Crystal  
walks him to the final door which splits to the front desk or to a door Roger hadn't noticed before. There the other man stops and finally lets go of Rogers wrist. 

"Just outside that door you've got the visitors hall. He will be sitting in one of the seats." 

Crystal points over his shoulder with his thumb. 

Roger takes a shuddering breath to fill his head with oxygen. "God." His heart is hammering out of his chest, Crystal grimacing at him is not exactly helping. "I'm going to fuck this up."

"You're sweating like a hooker in church." 

"Thanks." Roger rubs his palms dry on his sweats. He bows his head forward. "Will you come with me?"

"No I won't, this one is on you." 

Roger glowers at him. Crystal clasps his shoulder and chuckles. 

"I'll be in my room ready to hear all about it when you're finished up here. Just be your lovely, sweaty self. You'll be fine!" 

The hand on his shoulder becomes a push in the back which forces Roger to push the door open and step into the visitors hall, a room connected to the reception desk where he has signed in, but it is more generously decorated than the rest of the ward. Rogers eyes scan over the blue walls and fine paintings matching the off yellow furniture. Chairs and sofas are perched in small groups around the room, a vending machine in the back far back and a kettle with a selection of teabags and mugs stands on a table beside the guest entrance. 

There's other people in the room, patients in dull monochrome grey clothing and visitors having their afternoon tea together and speaking amongst themselves in groups.

Roger spots Freddie in a chair by the window, looking beautiful and nervous. 

He is dressed in a long casual clothing that he wouldn't wear to work. Hair pulled back in a low ponytail and eyes kept free from any makeup besides a smoked out eyeliner. 

His painted fingers tap on his jittering knee. 

Feeling Rogers eyes on him, Freddie turns his head and shoots out of his seat when he sees him.

"Roger!"

A rush of relief washes over him when the face and the voice still match his memories perfectly. He comes from his rooted place in the doorstop to meet Freddie halfway. 

"Oh Dear!" Roger falls into Freddie's open embrace with a shuddering exhale. Freddie wobbles slightly at the sudden increase of weight on his legs, but he holds on tight, wrapping one arm around Rogers neck and the other tangling in his hair. Roger takes a leisure inhale of Freddie's shampoo, cologne and body lotion. He clasps his arms around his heaving back and he realizes suddenly that Freddie is also sweating and also has tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. 

"Is your room nice? Are they treating you well? Is the food okay? Hm?" Freddie strokes back Rogers hair insistently trying to pry his head away from his neck so they can talk, but Roger refuses to be pulled away from the warmth. Freddie, after trying one more time to tip up Rogers face, gives up and instead perches his chin on Rogers head. "We miss you, Darling."

"I missed you too." 

Freddie sniffles wetly and squeezes him tighter, shaking his head. "I can't believe I have you in my arms again. We thoughts you were done with us." 

"I could never," Roger struggles to breathe but would gladly suffocate to death if in Freddie's arms. "Ever be done with you." 

"We should probably sit down." 

Roger nods again, but doesn't make an effort to move. He tightens his arms around Freddie.

He cannot express the warmth he feels overflowing from his heart through his veins all the way to the tips of his fingers. All nervousness is gone. This is Freddie. Soft, affectionate, funny, loving, Freddie.

"Yes." Roger whispers. He closes his eyes and pecks the softest patch of Freddie's neck just underneath the chin. "Just one more second." 

Affection blooms in his chest when Freddie kisses the crown of his head, flashing his teeth with a smile. 

"As long as you want, Rog. I won't let you go again." 

★☆★  
_  
"Richard?" There's a quiet knock on the doorpost before Imogen peaks her head inside the room. "You called for me?"_

_He tips his chin at the direction of the door. Roy obediently crosses the room to open it wide._

_Imogen is hesitant to enter his crowded bedroom._

_Only on odd occasions does he allow his prostitutes into his private domain, but today he makes an exception to the rule. He sits on his bed, propped against the wall. Imogen enters the room looking at the carpeted floor uneasily. He never found her particularly attractive, not when she came to him bankrupt and homeless, not now in her ratty dress and bare feet._

_Women longer than himself are rare and unpleasant to the eye. It helps at least that her back is hunched._

_"She the one?" Richard glances at one-eyed Larry. Often referred to as Hook because of his pirate appearance and lust for girls._

_Larry is standing next to Roy against the wall opposite the bed._

_After squinting his remaining eye at Imogen he nods._

_"That's the one. He talked to her."_

_"Good."_

_Imogen fiddles with the bottom of her dress. Roy closes the bedroom door so the other prostitutes in the living room can't listen in on the conversation._

_Richard eyes her long and hard before he begins to speak._

_This is not a common part of the job._

_Being a high ranking gang member is not a job of constant extortion, torture and manipulation. It is administration, control and leadership. Most of his duties revolve around making his quotas and keeping the system running from his end. It is more common for him to run numbers all evening, games of profit, the market, sales and working schedules keeping him up, than to threaten people with guns and put fire to things._

_Certainly, violence is needed to keep people in check and the system going and money rolling._

_At all costs the crew must persist. Grow. Dominate._

_This means that even though his daily duties are not very Hollywood, sometimes Richard gets to kick his legs up and play the mob boss he always admired on the big screen._

_"Do you know where Roger is? And don't you dare lie to me."_

_Imogen shakes her head. Her pale hair falls over her face. "No. I— he didn't tell me. He couldn't talk. He wasn't conscious."_

_Richard looks at Larry, who nods to confirm that is true._

_He turns back to Imogen and with the hand that is holding the gun he gestures for her to continue._

_"What about that man? Do you know him?"_

_Her hands still where they fiddled with the edge of her skirt. She is biting the inside of her cheek and not meeting his eye. Richard feels the rage he had before once again take. He tries to not let it influence his judgement, but it isn't easy._

_He'd nearly wacked out Larry's last eye when he told the strange man had not only pretended to have an appointment to fuck Roger, but also waltzed out with him in his arms._

_Richard has suspected Roger of cheating since his behavior has changed drastically. He'd stopped seeking Richard out for late night sex and extra heroin hits. He'd outright refused drugs and his cash flow had come to a staggering hold._

_He had disappeared for a week and come back disgusting and beaten._

_Now the man responsible for that has taken him away._

_Imogen knows more._

_Richard clears his throat and taps the edge of his loaded gun against his lips. He already flipped the trigger. He looks at Imogen and taps his fingers against the cool silver side._

_"Who was that man that took Roger? Don't fuck with me. I don't care if I have to shoot you in the leg for you to speak."_

_She squeezes her eyes shut. "His name is Freddie."_

_"Freddie." Richard glances at Roy, who is already scrambling for his notepad and pencil to jot it down. "Freddie. Freddie what?"_

_"I don't know, I swear. He told me his name when he came here to pick up Roger."_

_"To abduct Roger." Richard corrects her sharply. Making sure everyone in the room knows how it happened. "Have you heard about him before? Has Roger said anything?"_

_He is most certain that this person and the person who changed his Roger are the same._

_But he wants to hear it from her and her cracked lips._

_"Roger mentioned his name before... That he is a therapist."_

_"A therapist." Richard repeats, raising his eyebrows. Roy is still scribbling it down when he blows a low whistle. "A therapist named Freddie. Anything else?"_

_"That he works at an office at the south side of town. Because sometimes Rog would take a bus there. I think."_

_"What does he look like?"_

_"H-he had soft eyes, wore pajama bottoms and—"_

_Richard rubs his forehead and swings with his gun. Women are fucking useless. "Not like that you dumb cunt. What's his race? Hair color? Does he have any fascial hair? Tattoos?"_

_Imogen's face burns a deep scarlet. Richard doesn't care._

_"Sorry. Sorry I mean, uh," She stutters. Her chest rising and falling in rapid fear. "He was Rogers age, in his twenties. He had shoulder length black hair, he wasn't white or black. He could be middle eastern or asian, his skin wasn't very dark, but he wasn't white. I think. Uh, it was dark so I couldn't see much. I don't know what else— no beard or stubbles, but he had large front teeth."_

_"Does that fit the description?" Richard asks Larry._

_Larry's second eye is going to shit too, but after stroking his chin and thinking deeply he nods yes._

_"That sounds accurate to me."_

_"And..." Imogen holds her breath now that suddenly all three men are looking at her. Richard grounds his teeth. She rocks on her heels, fingers twitching in the fabric of her dress. "He said he would bring Roger to the hospital."_

_"What?"_

_That'd been a detail Larry has neglected to mention. He turns to his handy man— who now has his eye boggling out of his skull. The thickheaded fool at least knows when he had messed up not remembering that._

_"How did he say it?" Richard asks Imogen. "Did he say where?"_

_"He took Roger from my arms. So I asked where he was going to take him."_

_"And he said?"_

_"To the hospital."_

_Roy is already on his way to the living room when Richard orders, "Check all nearby hospitals for patients under the name Roger Taylor, or simply Roger. I want to see a list of therapists named Freddie in South London by the end of tomorrow. I want addresses and if possible, pictures. We have to find Roger. If we cannot find Roger, we will through Freddie. Getting Roger back safe and sound is top priority now. He is too valuable for the business and knows too much to be out of our reach. Bring him back by all means."_

_He doesn't care what methods they use to get their information, as long as they leave no dirty fingerprints leading to the Bull Crews ranking leaders._

_Richard lowers his gun to his lap when Larry also leaves to get his lowlings to work on the case too._

_Imogen is the only one left standing in the room._

_"If there's anything you're keeping from me—?"_

_"I'm not. I want Roger to be okay too." She whispers to the floor._

_He believes her now._

_"Good.” Richard waves her away with narrowed eyes, he had a lot of work to do. “Now fuck off to work."_

_★☆★_

_The report on Freddie lands on his lap the day after._

_Richard keeps the cigar perched between his lips while he flips through the pages. Most of it is a list of therapists named Fred, Frederick or Freddie situated London. Some have pictures, but most don't. Each name has the address of their work office noted in the box next to the name._

_He leans back in his chair, humming._

_"Managed to narrow it down yet?"_

_Roy nods and points at the red dots before some of the addresses. "There are five we consider could possibly be the man who abducted Roger."_

_Richard allows Roy to flip back to the second page, to a black and white passport photograph of a man with shoulder length black hair and visibly large front teeth even though he has his lips dragged over them._

_Freddie Mercury, it says._

_He looks up at Roy and shakes his head. "That's a fake name."_

_"So it may, but when I showed the picture to Imogen she said this was the guy."_

_"She could be misleading us." Richard murmurs. "Mercury is not a real name."_

_"Do you want me to keep looking or—"_

_"No, it's too risky to let this Freddie slip between our fingers. He is our only ticket to Roger. Investigate this one and the other four you were considering. Put a man on each of them. Let them visit their work places. I want to speak to Andrei, he should be the one investigating Mercury."_

_★☆★_

_He likes men such as Andrei. They are not the rough gang types such as Roy, Larry and himself._

_They aren't covered in tattoos, overly muscular or dangerous looking._

_That is why he schedules the unsuspecting kind to coordinate the prostitutes on Menom Road. They are average non-threatening looking people with secret lethal skills and weapons up their sleeves. This also makes them valuable for detection missions._

_"What is it you want me to do with him?"_

_"Don't kill him." Richard says. "Gather information first, bring it to me. If he gets harmed we might never find Roger again."_

_That sets Andrei's jaw in a tense line._

_Another reason why Richard chose him for the job; his utterly painful crush for Roger would drive him to do best for his wellbeing and punish the man responsible for his abduction. When the news broke out, Roy told Richard that Andrei was devastated and filled with rage._

_"We have yet to gain access to reports from all local hospitals on current and past patients, but we have not been successful finding Roger yet. Time is ticking, each day it gets harder to find him."_

_"I'll do anything to get Roger home safe and make Freddie pay."_

_Richard nods approvingly, puffing around the cigar. A thick smoke cloud hangs between them. "What I need you to do is simple, I give you all information I have on Mercury, we have the address of his work place. You go there and find him, follow him to his house or wherever he could keep Roger captive. If he is the one who abducted Roger, he must visit him from time to time. Gather enough information before you break in somewhere, I don't want any messy stains on this job. Talk to me or Roy if you find out more or need extra men."_

_He hands Andrei the report on Freddie._

_The younger man gives him a dutiful nod. Looking both saddened and determined with the papers under his arm._

_Richard watches him with a cautious approval._

_"Any questions?"_

_"No.” Andrei says. “I will do anything within my power to bring him back."_

_"I wouldn't expect anything less, don't let him or me down." Richard waves him out the door. He has four others to brief on their less solid Freddie cases too._

_★☆★_

_Two days later Andrei returns with his head bowed in a gesture of shame._

_Richard was just getting ready for a meeting with Alans right hand man to consider taking hospital reports by force when his own handyman entered the apartment empty handed._

_Irritation prickles under Richards skin, but he cannot scratch it._

_He halts in throwing his coat over his shoulders with a cold glare._

_"What is it?"_

_"Freddie Mercury doesn't work as a therapist anymore. He was fired some days ago."_

_"Some days? How many days?"_

_"Fifteen days ago." Andrei supplies. "That's one day after Roger disappeared."_

_"He was fired one day after abducting Roger." That certainly is interesting.” He pulls his arms into the sleeves and adjusts the collar. “What would that mean? Did he pack his bags and leave town? Did he get so devoted to his victim that he neglected his work?”_

_Andrei watches him pace the hallway. He admittedly feels trapped, like a zoo animal living in the wrong climate._

_He hates it when Roger is out of his grasp._

_It has been fifteen days. And fifteen days since the therapist allegedly disappeared too._

_They need to know more about this Freddie Mercury. "The timeline is too suspicious. Imogen said he was the guy, she was the only one who got a good look at him."_

_"I could go back and get my hands on his file at the office if they still have it?” Andrei interjects. “Perhaps it contains his home address."_

_"Try it." Richard nods. Stroking his chin while he walks up to the young handy man and stops in front of him, Andrei pauses at the lack of space between them. He holds his breath in his chest, keeping it puffed with tension. Richard takes his youth in for a long moment. "Don't get caught. I'll make sure we get our hands on those hospital files."_

_★☆★_

_Alan is an equal to Richard in the gang hierarchy._

_He doesn't manage prostitutes as Richard or deal much drugs, but he coordinates shipment and rules out competition, which are not safe or easy jobs._

_Of all the branches in their gang Alan suffers the most losses in men._

_Smugglers get caught by police. Warehouses where he makes or stores the drugs get raided by rival gangs. Revenge murders thin out his troops on occasion too. He makes up for the most visible part of the Bull Crew to other gangs._

_While Alan is at least as busy as Richard and they often butt heads, they need each other._

_Alan supplies. Richard sells._

_Richard works prostitutes. Alan keeps the streets safe and clear from rivals._

_"I got it for you."_

_Richard doesn't have the men power or connections to get access to the files from all the hospitals. He was too prideful to ask Alan for help directly, but he caved and finally mentioned his situation to his equal after a month of struggling to detect Roger._

_A month._

_While Andrei got his hands on Freddie's work file, it doesn't have his home address, only a phone number which has yet to get him anywhere._

_Desperation had driven Richard up a wall._

_They had tried to call the number on the file, but it is no longer in service. In an old phone book they found an address linked to the old number, the address was an old ladies house in West London, named Elizabeth. Andrei had driven to the house, looked around, but couldn't find her, or Freddie._

_Roger has been gone for over six weeks now and they have no trace of him or Freddie._

_While it isn't likely to find him back alive, Richard cannot move on until he sees his corpse with his own eyes and wrangles the air out of Freddie's throat with his own bare hands._

_Again he finds himself overwhelmed with a sense of violence. He grips his thighs hard to channel some of that anger._

_"You need to calm down." Alan says with that ice cold tone of his that Richard respects in all other moments but this. "Your anger makes you irrational. You're a fucking dealer for Christ sakes. You cannot act like a rapid dog. You need to think."_

_"Do you have the fucking files or not?"_

_"Yes."_

_They are sitting in the back of Alans car outside Richards apartment. It is better to keep the prostitutes away from the miserable news (or lack thereof) about Roger. He should not be an example for them in case they start to believe they can make a run for it and not be found again. Instead, Richard has to show that the Bull Crew will never let a matter pass until it is properly dealt with._

_Alan hands him two reports, both A4 sized and brown. Richard flips open the first one, which is from the White Chapel Hospital._

_"This one says one Roger Taylor was admitted to the White Chapel on the evening he was taken from here. Correct?"_

_"Yes." Richard reads the date at the top of the page carefully. "Indeed."_

_He scans over the list of injuries, they too match up with some of the ailments Roger had been complaining to him about the days before he was taken. Head pain, bleeding from the arms and skull, but also other nonsense such as dehydration and being underfed._

_"Then, if you read down the line it says he left the hospital two weeks later."_

_Richard glances sideways at Alan. Then at the other report in his lap._

_Alan grins, flashing his golden tooth. "Don't worry, there is good news. He disappears off the radar for a few weeks, as you know, but suddenly a new patient pops up out of the blue at the drugs dependency ward at the Bethlem and Maudsley hospital— you know the place, Larry deals there. Two days ago."_

_"Two days ago?"_

_Richard hates how smug Alan looks now that he has Richard exactly where he wants him. He flips open the file._

_"Roger Taylor, admitted by one John Deacon and Freddie Mercury on the 23rd of December. Has a heroin addiction. See?" He points at the names, at the signature which is 100% Rogers handwriting, at the filled out box which says heroin. Whatever Richard may think of Alan, he did everything Richard asked for and more, while his men have been struggling to get any information for weeks._

_"What kind of facility are we speaking?"_

_"Completely locked down, according to my sources and Larry."_

_Richard hums. It won't be pretty if he breaks into a rehabilitation center with cameras, constant monitoring and cause public outrage when it is traced back to the Bull Crew. Such an action would have him answering to his boss, which Richard avoids at all costs._

_"You could, perhaps make it seem like Roger escaped the ward himself."_

_Richard raises an eyebrow and sinks into the backseat cushions. Alan certainly is proposing some good ideas today, though Richard knows he won't be getting anything for free and will owe the other man. "I'm listening."_

_"This ward is split into two departments, one for detoxification and one for rehabilitation. In three weeks or so Roger will be in the rehab center, where he won't be constantly monitored, where he can have visitors. He will have his own room too, but with a window."_

_Out of stack of papers Alan snatches a piece of paper which is apparently the facilities floor plan._

_He points at the two rows of rooms which all connect to the outer wall of the hospital and each have their own window facing the outside._

_"You see, Roger isn't allowed to leave before they officially release him, which might take months. If you can figure out what room Roger is in, you can stage his 'break out'."_

_Richard pauses. Sucking in a breath._

_"How do you suggest I do that?"_

_★☆★_

_Someone once said that if you want anything to be done right, you must do it yourself._

_Because Richard has left Rogers fate in the hands of others for much over two months he has lost sight of him in his search. He no longer wishes to command from a distance. He must show to himself and to Roger and his people that he will not tolerate either incompetence or disobedience._

_If it takes doing the job himself, waking up at a decent hour and wearing unsuspicious civilian clothes, Richard will do as much._

_He makes Roy drive him up to the Bethlem and Maudsley hospital._

_They stop at the front of the drug dependency unit._

_"Will I stay in the car, boss?" Roy asks as he turns off the engine. Yawning._

_He is a tall scary looking man with his scarred face, muscular chest and neck tattoos. Having two large men go inside will look too suspicious. Richard unbuckled his seatbelt._

_"Yes, I need to do this alone."_

_He takes both his wallet with his fake identification cards and some cash if bribery is at any point necessary. He deliberately relaxes his fascial muscles and shoulders to leave his mob boss mentality in the car with Roy. He needs to look trustworthy. Regular. Friendly._

_Richard walks up the concrete steps and opens the door to the facility._

_Inside it is bare and empty. It is sparsely decorated. There are two doors, waiting chars and a reception desk._

_He doesn't feel nervous. He hasn't in many years. He takes in his surroundings with a calm collectiveness that only became a part of him after working with the Bull Crew since he was 15 years old. There is no need to worry. Not if you have a plan, a plan B and an escape car waiting outside the door._

_The receptionist is an elderly man talking to a good looking young woman with striking red lipstick and brown hair._

_They aren't talking about a work related subject, if the brunettes bubbly laughter is anything to go by. Richard makes a point of noisily taking a seat in one of the waiting chars. Showing that he is too polite and in no need to disturb their private conversation._

_"Can I help you, sir?" The receptionist asks instantly when he spots Richard sitting down._

_Richard blinks up, pretending to be surprised._

_"Oh certainly, but I am in no hurry if you are in conversation."_

_"No worries, what can I help you with?"_

_Richard makes it back to his feet and walks up to the reception desk in two strides with a practiced meek smile. He first glances at the man, and then nods politely at the woman in her neat pencil skirt which matches her red lipstick. She stands behind the desk too, but steps aside slightly to give the receptionist space to work._

_Richard leans on the desk with his elbows, still smiling._

_"My brother Roger Taylor was admitted here about three weeks ago. I was hoping maybe I could schedule a visit with him."_

_He doesn't miss the way the beautiful woman's eyebrows shoot up as he says it. But he mostly focuses on the receptionist who opens a drawer and flicks through a number of files until he reaches the T for Taylor and fishes out the one with Rogers name labeled on the top._

_"Roger Taylor, room 27, heroin addiction?"_

_Like stealing candy from a child._

_Richards grin widens on its own accord. He drums his fingers on the desk. "That's the one."_

__Twenty seven. Twenty seven. Twenty seven. __

_"Good, we got quite a few Taylors in the world don't we." The receptionist chuckles, before grabbing a vistors form from the corner of the desk and begins to fill it out. He writes down Rogers name, a code and the date of the request. "So, when would you like to visit and what name should I put down for you sir?"_

_"Three days." Richard says, smiling at the pretty brunette behind the receptionist, who is giving him a blank stare. "And you can write down that Richard is coming to pay him a visit, but please, do keep it a surprise if you can."_

_"That won't be a problem." The receptionist smiles._

_After that Richard turns around to leave, but as he reaches the door he hears the womans melodic voice ask the receptionist, "What did he say his name was?"_

_“Uh, Richard he said.”_

_Richard lets the door fall shut behind himself._

_It doesn't matter if they know his name. A grin involuntary spreads across his face._

_He knows what room Roger is in._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh do let me know what you think ;)
> 
> Guys next week is the Must Fuck Weekend and I will host it and post 5 fics. I will not update Nevermore so I can focus on that. I will be back the week after hehe


	20. Of Fright and Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dominique works the night shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was 2 weeks overdue and I struggled a little so I am very sorry I haven’t replied to everybody’s comments yet. I will tomorrow. It’s just been madness. Thank you all for understanding.

Dominique arrives at the unit at exactly 10 p.m. She parks her car at a reserved spot for staff and battles her way across the aged asphalt in her stiletto heels. 

A woman must never compromise her fashion, or so her dear grandmother used to say. 

She walks inside the building and instantly removes her coat when the winter cold is locked behind the closed doors. It is again Andrew sitting on reception tonight until someone comes in to relieve him from his shift. She greets him with a warm smile and tosses him a wave over her shoulder.

"Have a good night, Dominique."

"Thank you Andrew." She calls back before she disappears through the doors of DDU2.

Her shoes make a satisfying clinking noise with every step. The sharp sound echoes through the sparsely decorated corridor. She always despised the tasteless paintings on the walls, but never voiced such a thing to anyone. Some were made by her own patients after all.

"Dominique, good afternoon." 

"Hi Adam, how is you?" 

As much as Dominique enjoys working with Adam, she also enjoys to change shift with him. He knows just how she likes the daily report and, unlike her other colleagues, has readable handwriting. 

Dominique hangs her coat on the hook behind the reception desk while Adam fills her in about his day. Speaking of some inconveniences concerning a double assignment on the same room and a dreadful group session in the early afternoon.

When she had stuffed her gloves into the pockets of her coat and her shawl in the sleeve, Adam hands her the report so she can read further details herself.

"Anything else?" She asks with a careful smile.

Adam shakes his head no. They both lean against the reception desk. The purgatory between the workplace and freedom. 

"Everything should be written down. Everyone was fine. So and so discharged and we admitted the two freshly detoxified patients." She is already skimming through page two of bullet points. Adam reads the report upside down and points at the section contraband. "You missed the fun. We found a crack pipe in Allisons room today."

"That's a pity." Dominique hums, whilst dragging her eyes across the last page, nothing about her patients except for Roys scheduled leave. Good. Dominique closes the report and cradles it to her chest to give him her full attention. "Wasn't she set to leave next Thursday?" 

"Yes she was, back to DDU1 now." Adam points with his thumb to the door with a somewhat sad grimace. 

It is good the unit doesn't have that many patients. Never more than 40 at a time, but that makes it hard, sometimes impossible to distance yourself emotionally from your patients. 

She squeezes Adams arm with a half smile, before giving him the slightest push.

He steadies himself and chuckles, getting the hint.

"Good luck tonight, Dom." 

"Yeah, yeah, enjoy your freedom." She calls after him, quiet enough so none of the patients in the common room can hear her. That'd be of bad taste. 

She watches him leave with a goofy grin plastered on his face, probably going to meet the boyfriend he is always going on about. 

The doors flap closed and Dominique forces herself to straighten up and face her destiny, which is an evening of paper work and solving stray problems here and there; when patients are suspected of having narcotics she will formally request a urine sample or when anxiety hits and they need counseling. 

The glamorous perks of being a psychiatrist specialized as an addiction counselor. 

While lights out is in exactly— she glances at her watch, forty seven minutes before, the common room is still packed. The day activities leave most patients spent in their rare free time, which means they often don't cause trouble. Dominique hates nights shifts, but at least they don't often give her a hard time. Her heels and underwire are already doing enough of that. 

On her way to the office she reads through the reports another time to ensure none of her patients were written up for anything. Adams handwriting once again pristine, without even a droplet of misplaced ink. She could kiss him. 

Roy, room 36, discharged, 12:45  
Allison, room 09, contraband found, 16:15  
Allison, room 09, urine test positive, 18:50  
Allison, room 09, brought to DDU1. 

Dominique pushes the pages away from her face at the sound of laughter ringing across the hall.

She cranes her neck and looks around in case someone has the balls to laugh at her, but all that is left of the common room is people reading books, a game of monopoly in the back, a plate of biscuits being brought around by a kitchen volunteer and finally she eyes the source of the sunny chuckles.

Roger and Crystal pass her by without taking note of her, they both snigger in their elbows like mischievous schoolboys as they stumble across her pathway. 

They are headed for the corridor to their rooms, suddenly Dominique recalls the conversation she overheard the other day and picks up her pace to keep up with the two men. The sound of her shoes is what alarms them, then she calls out for Roger, which is when they stop walking in the opposite direction to meet her halfway. There is a carefree slackness to Rogers face which Dominique had never seen before, for the first time since he has been here, he looks not older or younger than his actual age. 

"Good evening Roger, I hope you're well." She smiles when they both come to a halt in front of each other. "Same for you Chris." 

Crystal nods but respectfully steps to the side so Dominique can talk privately with Roger, which seems to be clear to him instantly. She spares him a grateful smile before focusing on Roger, who is slightly smaller than her when she is in heels. 

"I'm doing fine," Roger begins, his improved mood still showing on his face. "Saw Freddie the other day, which was, well, it went amazing."

"I'm so happy to hear that." She says and means it. 

A moment of silence follows and Dominique realizes it is her fault, but still takes a moment to take in the sight of Roger. 

For the past few days he hadn't slept much and missed several of his meals, but today he finally has made good progress there. His eyes are clearer and no longer encircled with dark bags. There is a straightness in his shoulders and a healthy flush to his cheeks. Dominique doesn't approve of dependency, but the meeting with Freddie has had a good influence on her patient.

The moment stretches out longer, before Roger can open his mouth to ask why she stopped him, Dominique picks up the conversation once more. 

"That's good to hear truly." She says. "Now I suppose others will come to visit you soon."

Roger tries and fails to suppress the enthusiasm radiating off his face. "I suppose so. I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much, but that'd be nice."

Dominique hums and shifts the report to her left elbow. After another pause, she asks, "Do you like surprises, Roger?"

He shakes his head almost immediately. 

She had suspected as much and exhales long and carefully to buy herself another second longer to find the right words to explain the conversation she had overheard without coming across as a total creep. Every second the silence stretches, Roger grows stiffer with tension. 

"Well," Dominique sighs, further delay will only cause unneeded damage. "The other day I accidentally overheard a conversation while I was at the reception desk— just chatting with my colleague before I went home." She shakes her hair out of her eyes, getting on with the story when Roger grows only more confused as to why she is telling him this. "Anyway, a man came in and introduced himself as Roger Taylors brother. We checked to make sure he meant you, Roger Taylor. He filled out a visitors report so he could come by to see you in a couple of days, but he asked if we could keep it as a surprise for you, which is unusual I must admit." She shifts the report to her other arm when Rogers face doesn't lit up again. Instead his frown deepens. Dominique elaborates, "Sorry to ruin a surprise, but I didn't want him to startle you." 

Rogers nose scrunches up in confusion. "Who?"

"Your brother," Dominique repeats slowly. "He made an appointment to see you in a couple of days."

"My brother?" 

It wouldn't be the first time her patience was tested working here. People should be aware of what drugs can do to the brain. "Yes, he came up to reception and asked to schedule a visit—"

She stops midspeech when Roger raises a hand, not to stop her, but to cover his own lips, making it hard to make out the muffled words he speaks. 

"I don't have a brother."

"He—" Dominique frowns and Rogers confusion morphs into dread. "He introduced himself as such."

"W-what did he say?"

Crystal steps in and settles a hand on Rogers arm. The one thats covering half his face. "What's wrong?" He asks Roger, who doesn't take his ample eyes from her. Then Crystal turns to her too, but she doesn't know how to answer him. 

She is one hundred percent certain the man introduced Roger as his brother. They even checked to make sure Roger was the right Roger Taylor. Her gut had told her at the time she should check in with him to make sure Roger was okay with this. Now seeing his alarmed reaction she is glad she followed through. 

"Dominique." Roger swallows as if the words can barely make it out of his throat. "What else did he say? Did he say his name?"

"Yes." She glances between Crystal and Roger, she had made sure to check, in case Roger had several brothers. 

"He said that his name was Richard."

All color drains from Rogers face. One moment he had stood in front of her, frowning, the next he crumbles to the floor, or would have if it wasn't for Crystal holding onto his arm so he couldn't fully slink into a ball. 

"Hey— hey? Roger what's wrong?"

True panic washes over Roger. His entire body breaks into a violent shiver, resembling a seizure. He hides his face in his knees and rocks back and forth like a child without its mother.

Crystal cannot pull him up to his feet no matter how hard he tries. Roger is whispering in terror, shaking his head. 

"What's going on?" The older patient asks Dominique and she wishes she could answer. 

"He knows where I am. He knows where I am. He knows." Roger mumbles between hyperventilating. "He knows."

"Who knows?"

Dominique comes to a crouch in front of him. She doesn't care about her pencil skirt or other patients looking at the show. She tries to make eye contact with Roger, but he strictly avoids it in favor of crying and shaking. 

"Roger, talk to us. If he isn't your brother. Who is he?" She prompts quietly, but she doesn't dare touch him like Crystal. His arms are tugged tense against his body and winded up to lash out if anyone makes a sudden movement. 

Maybe he tries to answer it, but she cannot understand between his crying and panicked mantra. 

"Visitation isn't mandatory, Roger. If you don't want to see him, nobody will force you to." 

"Are you listening to her?" Crystal asks while squeezing Rogers arm. "Do you hear that? Nothing to worry about. Nobody can see you without your permission. There's nothing to panic about." 

"He knows where I am. He knows. I don't want to go back. I can't do this. I can't. I can't." 

Dominique glances at Crystal, who glances at her with an equally blank face. 

She knows what kind of people her patients were involved with before going through rehabilitation. They come from dysfunctional families, abusive husbands, gangs. She hasn't met many addicts with an easy background. She knows that Roger doesn't have one either. 

Someone must have alerted the night nurse, because with a rush of wind Greta has made way to Rogers side and shoulders Crystal out of the way. She is strong enough to yank Roger to his feet, whether he wants it or not, and drags him in the direction of his room. He walks bend over the waist and sobs at the loss of Crystal, who trails behind them. At all times he keeps a hand on Rogers back. 

"No. Stop." 

Greta stops at the sound of her voice, she turns around to look at Dominique with a frown. Roger struggles to breathe. Exhaling too fast to inhale. 

"No? Dom, he is having a meltdown. We have to remove him from the common room." 

"Where will you take him?" Crystal rubs a hand between Rogers shoulder blades while he splutters for oxygen. 

"His room," Greta explains firmly. "He can calm down there." 

"No. No he knows. He knows I'm here. I can't stay. He'll come and take me." 

They all ignore Rogers wet blabbering to come to a decision. Dominique glances between Rogers tear stained face and the furrow between Crystals brows. Roger isn't doing okay and he cannot be left alone now. 

"Bring him to my office." She decides on the whim. Greta's eyes widen. Her grip on Rogers arm is still hard. 

"Dominique he is—"

"He's my patient. I know what he needs." 

This time it is her who shoulders Greta away so she can grab a hold of Rogers arm. Crystal almost immediately grabs his other arm in case he topples over again. Dominique is nowhere near as physical as Greta or him. 

She leaves the nurse standing in the hallway with Adams report, which has zero importance right now. Together with Crystal she tugs Roger gently in the direction of her office. He is still uncooperative and crying, but he doesn't actively struggle against them 

"C'mon, lets get you out of here." She says in her most tender voice, which she doubts Roger can hear. "Chris, you come too, right?"

"Course." He grunts.

★☆★

After her first day at the drug dependency ward Dominique cried the whole tube ride home and threatened to quit that instance, until she called her mother who'd been a nurse during the war. 

Her sweet, stubborn French mother had very little patience for her yammering. 

To her own dismay she had kept her job and returned the next day standing a little taller and more prepared than the day before. That time she only cried once she fell into bed.

Each passing day made her life as a psychiatrist more normal and less exhausting. 

It began to fall into place when she started to see the first hand results of her counseling. Her patients got out into the world and found themselves jobs, houses, hobbies, custody of their children; reasons to live another day. 

While it had taken Dominique a little while to understand why she should bear the weight of this job, she is fully committed to it now.

"Sit on the couch Rog."

"No." Roger refuses to be dragged by Crystal to the sofa and instead collapses on the floor, because, Dominique realizes, the couch is too close to the window facing out into the hospital yard. "Don't make me. Please."

Crystal sends Dominique a helpless look, she takes a deep breath. Considering in her mind how to deflect the situation.

"It's alright, he can sit on the rug. Whatever he is comfortable with."

"Alright." Crystal nods stiffly, like Roger his shoulders are rigid with tension. He lowers himself to floor next to Roger. Who is rocking back and forth with his arms around his legs and his face hidden in his knees. 

The sight is even more unbearable with the broken sobs wrenched from Rogers chest. 

Dominique doesn't usually lock the door, but the situation warrants for it. She then crosses the room to shut the blinds down to the windowsill. She secretly hopes it will help Roger feel safer. 

Both Roger and Crystal are in the same position, with Crystal stroking Rogers trembling back. 

"Come on Rog, nobody can get you here."

"He knows where I am. He knows how to get to me. He always does. He won't stop now. I can't do this. I didn't want this to happen. Anything but this."

"Shh, c'mon Roger. The building is well secured, nobody can—"

"It won't stop him. Nothing ever stops him." He claws at his reddened face. Alarming both Dominique and Crystal. "I'm dead. I'm a dead man." 

"Roger," Crystal pulls on Rogers wrist to make him stop. "You're hurting yourself. You're not making any sense." 

She had always considered them a lovely duo. They still are, but there is a petrified look in Crystals eyes when he looks at the state of Roger now. It is a very different Roger from the shy young man they first met, or the charming one they met somewhat later.

Dominique kicks off her heels and leaves them by the door. Despite her pencil skirt she sits down on the carpet opposite of Roger and Crystal.

"Roger." Her voice doesn't project quite like Crystals, but her tone is firmer. Roger hunches his back at the command. "Count down from ten to zero. If you keep hyperventilating I will have to send you up to the hospital, I know you would prefer not to leave us or this room, but you need to calm down." She says.

Roger shakes his head again. He is barely present now, which is worrying.

The rapid rise and fall of his chest is accompanied by a worrying amount of heaving. Dominique remains calm, hands on her thighs, leaning forward in case he needs to look ar her. 

"Count with me and breathe like I do. Crystal will follow along too."

Crystal nods to confirm that he will. 

The two of them take a deep breath in. They fill in their lungs with fresh oxygen until their chests are puffed and their cheeks bloated.

They hold in the air, counting down on Dominique's fingers. _Four, three, two—_. 

"Exhale." 

She counts again how long they have to slowly let out all the gathered air until they each punch out the last bit. Wait. Dominique thinks calmly, then, repeat.

The first two times Rogers sobbing is too frantic for him to follow their pattern.

On the third round he takes a panicked look at Crystals lips, taking note of when he inhales, but not managing to inhale enough fast enough. His lungs exhaling because of the risen panic in his chest. The fourth time Roger finally managed to breathe in when they do too. He doesn't keep up with the pattern, inhales and exhales twice in the intended cycle, but at least he manages to breathe in simultaneously on the fifth time as well. His sobs forcibly coming to stuttering halts. 

By the seventh round he is somewhat slumped over and needing Crystals support to stay upright.

The hyperventilating stops completely by the tenth breath. 

Dominique is determined to continue until they have reached fifteen. Inhale, keep the oxygen in your lungs, slowly blow the air out to cleanse your lungs from the used air. Hold still without any air inside at all, before repeating the cycle. This continues until Dominique grows dizzy and stars appear on her vision. The others aren't doing too well either, Crystal looks green around the edges and Roger has shut his eyes tight. 

At least he is no longer hyperventilating. Though he has yet to stop shivering. 

Crystal has wrapped his arm around Rogers shoulder. To keep him close.

His face is red from extrusion. He wipes both snot and tears in his sweater when he drags it over his face to appear more decent, but neither Dominique or Crystal are fooled.

Despite her many years of experience and the many miseries she had witnessed, the sight of him is still heart shattering. 

All she knows that there is a man, Richard, who is not Rogers brother, because he doesn't have one. Despite his best efforts to stay hidden, Richard managed to locate not only the hospital Roger is in, but also what ward. 

There is too little of Roger that she knows for this to make sense.

She knows he is homosexual. She knows he has a boyfriend named Freddie, the person who admitted him to the hospital, writes him letters. Roger had been deadly afraid Freddie would drop him, which would make Roger homeless. He has even revealed he has previously been homeless with no further details. Not on how long or when exactly, but had been clear about his life during the unknown period; he didn't like it. 

There are several places in Rogers story where she could insert a third person. 

Richard could be a person he owes money to, for drugs. Richard could be a previous boyfriend who put him on the curb before he became homeless. Richard could be a dangerous someone he met on the streets. Richard could be his supplier. Richard could—

"He raped me." 

Roger has managed to lift his head to rest his chin on his knees. He sounds even smaller than he looks. At first Dominique assumes she misunderstood, but the wobble of Rogers lip tells she had not.

Crystal who still has his hand on Roger stiffens. Almost to the point of rigid. 

"I was raped. Again. And again. Repeatedly. Every day." 

A cold memory of shame glasses over Rogers gaze. His eyes are strictly fixed on the pattern in the carpet. The tension in the room makes it impossible for Dominique to suck in another breath without feeling like she had stolen the last oxygen from the office. 

"I was sixteen when he forced me to do all these _things_. I was scared and I didn't understand." Roger hurriedly adds. "He let his friends have me, however they wished. I didn't feel like a person. I still don't feel like I person. I remember everything and I hate it and myself." 

"Slow down, Roger. Are you talking about this Richard?" Dominique sits up on her knees. She motions up and down with her hands to calm him. 

Roger shakes his head and brings his hands up to cover his face just as a fresh stream of tears well up in his eyes. 

"My mother died and I had nowhere to go. I was alone in the world, nobody cared. Nobody was there. Richard was the only one left. After some begging and crying, I was allowed stay with him, but only under some conditions. I didn't care, y'know."

"Living under his roof meant a safe place to sleep, food to eat and people who looked after me. Of course I didn't understand what it'd lead to. I didn't think he'd make me—" Roger squeezes his eyes shut and rubs angrily at his tears. 

"It seemed reasonable at the time," He scoffs and chuckles dryly. " _You can stay, I'll take care of you, but you'll have to pull your weight, be useful to me_."

"I thought, because we were dating, right? I thought he meant cleaning around the flat, cooking and doing laundry for everybody."

"But, I was wrong. So very wrong, but there was no way I could pull back now. He was paying for everything, the clothes on my back to the food in the fridge. And I had nowhere else to go." 

His hands come down from his face to wrap his arms around his knees. He somehow manages to make himself even smaller. 

"I had to work for him or he'd throw me onto the streets. He made that clear very early on. My mum died in the winter. It was cold out, I was grieving and scared, so I stayed. Only learning to consequences as I went along." 

"Not much later I was brandmarked, shot up with drugs and put to work on the streets." 

"I did horrible, horrible things. Shameful things." Roger sniffs. "I can never move on because my skin crawls just thinking about how disgusting I am."

Crystal clears his throat, it is as if the movement had reminded his muscles how to operate again. He strokes his hand down to Rogers elbow, his touch more tender than before. "Roger..." 

"I become a whore. I got addicted to drugs because that's what he gave to all his whores. And I thought this was normal, or not forever because surely that wasn't what I was intended for? Right?" 

"I was wrong. I stayed. It became my life. Heroin. Rape. Money. Violence. More heroin. More rape. More money or more violence. I didn't want to live anymore, it was useless." 

"That's when I met Freddie. When I hit absolutely rockbottom because my life had become such a blur. I could barely tell the difference between days and clients and time. Meeting Freddie was a breath of fresh air, he was loving and kind. Freddie he told me things I was too stupid to see for myself because Richard had blinded me. He took me out of school, fed me lies, gave me drugs, kept my mind numb and my legs spread so he could make profit of me. Or use me."

"I don't get how I didn't see it for so many years? Freddie pointed out the simplest things. He made me realize that, Richard wasn't my boyfriend. I wasn't special. Maybe I was, but not the way I wanted to be. I was a specially profitable prostitute. I listened especially well to him. I thought I loved him. Stupider even, I thought he loved me too."

Talking about Freddie seems to have calmed him down enough to stop the worst of his crying. He glances sideways at Crystal and subtly leans into his touch.

Crystal manages a strained smile. There is a hardness in his eyes, directed not at Roger. 

"Freddie," Roger continues with an exhale. "Made me see that even though Richard provided me food and shelter, he wasn't a good person. He made me see that Richard didn't give me drugs to make me feel better after a hard day, but to keep me under his thumb."

"What did Freddie suggest? The most logical thing, move out and get away from him. It's be best if I'd find somewhere else to go. Freddie suggested a homeless shelter for the short term. Have you ever stayed at a homeless shelter?" He asks Crystal. 

Crystal nods stiffly. His eyelid twitches as he says, "Once, but never again." 

"Never again." Roger repeats with an lackluster snort. He blinks up at the ceiling to battle the tears that continue to fall down his blotchy cheeks. "You see, Richard isn't just Richard. He is part of something much bigger and more dangerous. If they'd find out... I don't know but the man working at the shelter knew the gang. He threatened to expose me. Tell me where I was because I'd run away."

 _Gang_. Dominique swallows. She tries to keep her face neutral. 

"I was assaulted, again. Used like a blowup doll full of air and skin of plastic. Before the morning, I was kicked out. Where do I go?"

"Richard." She murmurs. Roger squeezes his eyes shut in confirmation. 

"What did Richard do when I came back, after I'd run off like that and disappeared for a week? He confirmed all the things he had implemented in my head all my life. That I couldn't vent for myself. That everyone else was out there to hurt me worse. That everyone thought I was only good for one thing. That he was the only solid rock in my life. So I returned back home to him. I went back to work. I went back to heroin, because it made it more bearable, knowing that was my destiny. That was my fate."

"He'd punished me. I still have the scars that show that he meant it, when he said I couldn't leave again. If I left again he wouldn't be so kind."

"Would he hurt you?" Dominique asks needlessly. Feeling sick with the sudden heaviness in her gut. 

Rogers teary eyes zero in on her. 

"He killed before. Richard is part of the Bull Crew. A gang in South London." He rolls up his sleeve to show poorly covered burn mark. "I tattooed over it. I wanted to forget. I was tainted. I'm still— marked forever. He won't stop looking. He found me." Rogers breath picks up again. His fingers tangle in his hair. "I thought— Freddie thought I was crazy when I saw the car outside. I wasn't crazy. I saw it."

Crystal rubs his arm, trying to keep him grounded. "What do you mean?"

"Sorry— Sorry I mean, Richard beat me up so bad I thought I'd die. Freddie found out where he lived and brought me to a hospital. After I recovered enough I went home with him and his boyfriends. They are the ones who admitted me here, after I was stealing their medication and panicked when I saw a car outside the house. The car belonged to one of Richards handymen. I thought I was crazy. They thought so too, but he found me. It's a matter of time now before he finds his way inside and finish what he started."

He crumbles into a ball again. Head bowing forward so he can hide himself behind his knees. He is shaking once more, trembling.

Crystal squeezes his shoulder while he stares straight at Dominique.

He looks about as pissed as Dominique feels. His eyes are raging and his chest heaves up and down too fast. 

There is too much said and simultaneously not enough.

If this were a true session Dominique would have called this a breakthrough, but today it is a breakdown. 

Richard, the name is vile even in her mind, is the reason for all of Rogers misery. He has somehow found out where Roger is located and even gone as far as—

Suddenly she remembers.

"He—" All eyes turn to her. Dominique looks between them frantically. "The receptionist told Richard your room number." 

"What?" Roger gasps. 

Dominique bites her lip. _Fuck._

Roger sucks in a breath of air And releases it as soon as he inhales it. It sends him right back into a spiral of hyperventilating. He claws at Crystals shirt, trying to keep himself from completely falling apart, Crystal wraps his arms around Roger and shushes him as he cries. "He's going to kill me. He's coming to kill me. Don't let him take me, please."

"We aren't sure if he is coming now." Crystal tries to reassure. 

Dominique has to agree with him. Breaking into a medical ward is unlikely, even for gang members. 

If his plan were to abduct Roger, why would Richard be so bold as to give his own name? Why not send one of his handyman? Why set up an appointment at all? 

There are too many risks involved. That is not how the maffia or gangs operate. 

Is he just being cocky? Does he want to terrify Roger to bits? Or is he truly ready to strike?

The idea is odd and for many reasons hard to make sense of. There's never been anyone successful in trying to break into the facility. Mostly because people don't usually try to break in. They try to break out. Certainly people have walked out, but they just went through the hospital, which is a much easier escape route than the double glass windows above the beds. A person could barely fit through it, let alone a sturdy man like Richard.

"He set up an appointment for tomorrow." Roger interjects. "If he made plans to hurt me, he's coming tonight."

"You think he is coming today?" Crystal asks tightly.

Roger sits upright and pulls on Crystals collar. He scrambles to look between him and Dominique. Eyes wide and begging.

"Please, please please don't make me go back to my room. Please don't make me go. Please."

It'd be torture to force Roger to go back when he is certain he will be assaulted. 

Even though it is not the most sensible conclusion to draw, she'd never force him in a situation where he would be that uncomfortable.

"You don't have to go anywhere." Dominique says calmly, surprising both him and Crystal. "You two can stay in my office tonight until the end of my shift. He wouldn't do anything at daylight, right?"

"I suppose not." Roger sniffles. Still held tightly by Crystal. 

"He thinks you're in room 27. Tomorrow we can make further arrangements to change what room you're in, just... Stay together the two of you for tonight, until you feel safe, okay Roger? I'll tell security downstairs that no Richards will be allowed inside the ward." 

She reaches over the table to grab a couple of tissues from the box. Dominique hands them over to Crystal, who thrusts them to Roger.

Roger takes the tissues with a murmured thanks. He blows his nose and wipes the corners of his eyes. Not once does he pull away from Crystal or his comforting arms. 

There's a lot of trauma laid out in the open. Roger is vulnerable and cold. 

She doesn't need to play the psychiatrist right now. He doesn't need to be told his fear is slightly irrational, because it is very likely Richard is playing mind games with Roger until he leaves the ward in a few weeks himself. Then there will be no security cameras or nurses or double glass windows stopping him. 

"I will grab you two some pillows and a blanket." Dominique announces while she rises to her feet. "Maybe some tea?"

"Please." Roger asks wetly, causing Dominique's heart to clench some more.

She tries for a smile while she steps back into her shoes. "Of course, and Chris?"

"Me too, yeah." He nods with the same rage still burning in his eyes even when he tries to suppress it. Dominique bows her neck once and turns to unlock the door, but Crystal clears his throat to gain her attention again. 

She raises her eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Maybe we should take some of Rogers belongings from his room. In case he does try something." Like, break into the facility. 

Dominique is convinced Richard will not be doing any of that, but bites her tongue. 

"Just in case?" Dominique murmurs, before nodding. "Very well." Her eyes move over to Roger, who's paler than a corpse. "Is there anything in your room we should secure— just in case?" 

"He can't find the letters. If he finds those he will know too much." 

Roger is fully convinced Richard will try to break in. The terrified look in his eyes says so much. Dominique doesn't want to undermine him. For tonight she will ask Greta to lock both entrances and keep a good look at the security cameras across the ward. Maybe ask the guard to stay up in DDU2 instead of across both facilities. 

"Where do you keep them?" 

"Under my bed. Please get them all. If he finds one—"

"I'll get them all, I promise you." Dominique hurries to add. "I will crank up security for tonight. You can stay out of your room."

"Okay." Roger hiccups behind the tissue. "Thank you... For listening and helping."

Dominique lips curl into a tired smile. 

"Don't worry, Dear. It's better to be safe than sorry."

★☆★

"Roger?" 

Despite jerking up from Crystals shoulder it doesn't look like Roger has slept much last night.

Granted, the rug in Dominique's office isn't anywhere near as comfortable as a bed. 

He rubs the remains of sleep from his eyes as he sits upright. Crystal wakes up too with equally dark bags under his eyes and a stiffness in his shoulders. They pull each other to their feet, looking at Dominique who's standing in the door to her office.

"My shift is up." She informs quietly. "It's six, so the sun isn't up yet, but there's something you ought to see." 

She makes a motion for them to follow her. The two exchange a glance, but the exhaustion withholds them from grilling her with questions, for which Dominique is grateful. 

Her chest is tight and a abnormal pressure builds behind her eyes. 

After a near ten hour shift and walking in her heels back and forth between her duties and her office to calm Roger, has left her sanity hanging on a thread as thin as a single hair. When she thought her shift was nearly over and she was finishing up the evening report for Louise who'll relieve her, the male security guard had approached her with a hard although confused look. 

Pushing the panic down, she leads Roger and Crystal down the corridor to the left where the patients bedrooms are located.

From the corner of her eye she can see Roger stumble to a near halt, only Crystals strength keeps him from actually tripping. Crystal murmurs something that sounds like an encouragement as he drags Roger along with an arm around his shoulder.

Greta and the head of the buildings security are waiting for them outside of Rogers room.

Dominique stops besides them and gives them a warning glance before turning to Roger, who has turned sickly pale again. Contrasting the shadows under his deeply haunted eyes. 

She leaves the physical touches to Crystal. Her hands are tugged to her chest, laid over her heart while she looks at him.

"I'm so very sorry."

"What happened?" He asks instantly and despite how quiet he sounds, he is insistent. When Dominique can't find the words he turns to the guard, then at Greta, who both carry professional masks over their own shock. 

When nobody answers, Roger shoulders himself past them to get to his room. Crystal is hot on his heel. 

"Roger, it's—" Dominique tries to warn him even when she is unsure what to say. He enters the room and gasps. Crystal stumbles against his back because he'd come to a grinding halt. 

Dominique sighs. 

The first thing she sees is Rogers shoulders dropping. 

Past him she sees the broken window, allowing a cold draft into the room. Shattered glass has fallen over Rogers pillow and the floor. 

The bed has been stripped to the mattress. The sheets lay ripped apart on the floor and the mattress is upside down. Flipped over. Every nook of the room appears to have been searched. Rogers toiletries are on the floor and left carelessly in the sink. His books are torn to pieces and his clothes have also been searched. 

Someone had tried to break in. Searching for something. 

Dominique walks further into the room and inches past Crystal. Glass crunches under her shoes. 

She walks until she stands eye to eye with Roger. To her surprise he isn't crying or panicked. It takes half a second for his eyes to drag away from the crime scene to face her. 

"Are you okay?" She asks. 

Roger gives her a stiff nod and his eyes are alarmingly numb. 

"I need to make a phone call."

★☆★  
 _  
"What did they say?!"_

_John bursts through the door taking with him the cold and chill of the wind. The droplets rolling off his coat leave small puddles on the floors as he darts into the kitchen where Freddie and Brian are sitting around the table._

_He shrugs of his coat and throws it over the back of the chair. The eagerness slowly leaves his body while he takes in the sullen expressions on his boyfriends faces._

_"What's wrong?" He asks, first Brian then Freddie when he doesn't respond. "What did the doctors say?"_

_"Freddie, why don't you tell us where you have been all day."_

_Brian has his arms crossed over his chest. There is a sharpness to his tone John doesn't want to challenge. Despite the deep flush that darkens Freddie's cheeks, he doesn't either._

_Two mournful brown eyes flicker up at John. Freddie swallows thickly._

_To speak looks as if it'd hurt, but there is no mercy coming from Brian, who's usually much more forgiving than John. A sudden worry fills up whatever space the confusion doesn't take up in his head. "Sorry?" John says._

_Freddie squirms before his eyes fall back on the tabletop._

_"I lost my job." He says._

_Before John can comprehend what that even entails and all the follow up questions of why and when, Brian leans forward on his elbows to give them his own news. "Now that that's finally out of the way. I have Adenomyomatosis and Cholecystitis, which is a gallbladder disease."_

_"Will they remove it?" John asks. "Can they?"_

_"I have a more rare form, because it hadn't been found early on. It's treatable yes, but they'll have to do it soon because it gets even worse."_

_"So now we know at last." John sighs in relief._

_A weight that has been presence since the first time he drove Brian to the hospital suddenly lifts off his chest. He can breathe again, it seems. He tests it out by leaning in to capture Brians lips briefly to celebrate the long awaited victory. Despite the somewhat weird circumstances Brian kisses him back, until John leans over to also brush his lips against Freddie's too._

_"You're in so much trouble, Fred." He whispers against his mouth._

_Freddie nods, but his eyes are wet with unshed tears of both joy and something unidentifiable. "I know. I know and I'm sorry."_

_"Where's the money coming from?" John asks, thumbing a tear away from Freddie's cheek. "Hm?"_

_"I have a stall, where I sell my clothes."_

_"Goddamnit Freddie." John isn't sure whether to slap him or kiss him better. His beloved clothes were slowly being sold out of their closet and John hadn't even thought anything more of it. He somehow assumed Freddie cared so much for his belongings that he'd known for himself what to keep and what not._

_This sheds a different light on the situation. Freddie can't possibly continue down this road, selling what is his._

_"I'm sorry." He sniffles. It is impossible to stop the tears when Brian reaches across the table to take Freddie's hand in his. "To both of you. I was going to tell you. I just didn't know how. Or what way. I got fired at the worst possible time. You told me it'd happen, but I just didn't want Roger to feel responsible. He couldn't know. Neither could you two. I was ashamed and wanted to proof everything would be okay this way too, even though its not the conventional way. And I—"_

_John silences him with another kiss. This one more sharp and deep. Their teeth clash together on impact, Freddie whimpers when John parts his lips with his tongue to slip inside._

_He is both angry and esthetic. Brian has a diagnosis. A treatable condition. Everything else could never bring that down._

_Only when air becomes necessary does he pull away from Freddie. They both gasp for breath._

_"It's okay." He informs his bewildered boyfriends. "It's— it's good you told us. There shouldn't be lies between us." He looks at Brian, his face splits into a grin of joy. "We got a second chance, a real chance here. We should begin with a clean slate."_

_Brian nods, his face still serious even when he rubs his thumb over Freddie's knuckles tenderly._

_Under the table his foot jitters._

_The smile slowly falls from Johns face. He frown. "What is it?"_

_"Roger relapsed the day I forced him out on a grocery trip." Johns eyes turn over to Freddie, who elaborates on Brians behalf. "He took heroin and slept with someone in exchange for the drugs."_

_John remembers that day. Roger looked like a shell of himself. He'd slept most of the day and been extremely uncooperative when it came to work around the house. Freddie had made up some bullshit excuse at the time, but the relapse makes much more sense to John. It did. Roger had been a wreck. Worn and sluggish and a ghost version of himself._

_Freddie sighs, and shakes his head with a wet chuckle. "Brian and I both kept it from you. Thought you'd freak out, but if it's really time to start over, we should put it all on the table."_

_"I'm sorry." Brian says. Looking slightly ashamed of himself. "That was— fuck. We shouldn't have secrets from each other. It doesn't matter what. We shouldn't."_

_John nods sharply. "I agree."_

_"—Therefor... I uh, I wanted to say that," Brian rubs at his pink face. Freddie and John exchange a look before Brian clears his throat. "I had hoped Roger would stay with us. Permanently. Not just, uh, as a guest or a friend or something."_

_"Are you saying you are in love with Roger?" Freddie gapes._

_Brians teeth sink into his lower lip. "No." He murmurs. "I just... Had feelings— Don't judge me. We said we'd be honest from now on."_

_"That's right... But that's quite the bomb, Darling. I'm unsure if John would—"_

_Johns mouth moves before his head can think._

_"I kissed Roger."_

_Brians knees bump against the table and Freddie nearly topples backwards off his chair._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg! Thank you all for reading and I absolutely love reading your comments. They make me so very happy and you guys are just amazing.


	21. Of Concern and Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger lives in the aftermath of the attempted abduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Before the start of this chapter I would like to ask you to please take a moment to sign the petition for George Floyd, who was murdered by several police officers in a horrific deliberate attack on his live. He was chocked to death for 8 minutes while 4 men held him down, he begged for his life.
> 
> Everyone can sign this petition, from every country. 
> 
> https://www.justiceforbigfloyd.com/#petition
> 
> Please.

"Roger?" 

Adam sends him the kindest of all smiles. Roger tries for one himself, but it resembles more of a grimace than anything else. 

They're back in the circle. Roger had contemplated sitting group therapy out and stay in his newly assigned room, but Crystal had dragged him out of bed all the way to therapy by the collar of his shirt. 

"I was informed by my colleague Dominique that there's been an unfortunate incident, would you like to inform the rest of the group?" 

Roger takes a look around the room. The sullen faces of his fellow patients twist into curiosity. 

He shifts in his chair and bumps against Crystal who's pressed against his side. The whole time Adam doesn't blink until Roger opens his mouth to speak.

"There was a break in, into my room." Roger starts. He ignores the raised eyebrows. "My room was flipped upside down. But the police said they couldn't do anything, nothing was stolen, nobody escaped. They assume it were some teenage yobs, getting drunk causing trouble." 

"I'm very sorry you—"

"It weren't bloody teenagers. I know who did it." 

Adam pauses. Roger does too, to inhale sharply through his nose before he says something he'll regret.

It takes a second for the red flash of anger to disappears once more. He had tried to reason with the police, but they hadn't taken him serious. They _couldn't_ take him serious. Nothing was stolen. Nobody was harmed. There was nothing valuable at risk. 

Roger couldn't just reveal he's involved with the Bull Crew. He'll be the one in handcuffs before he's finished his sentence. 

"Who do you believe did it?" Adam asks in a slow cautious tone bordering on condescending or a warning. Roger isn't sure which, because Adam had never spoken with an edge before. 

He sits a little straighter in his chair. Crystal lands a supportive hand on his shoulders, somehow grounding him there in the room.

He faces the group of curiosity filled spectators to his story. 

Roger twists his neck to look straight at Adam again. "I was targeted by someone from my past. I know it was him, because I fled from him and now he tried to abduct me." 

"Are you saying he has intentions of hurting you?"

"Yes." Roger grits his teeth. He rubs his eyes furiously to see through a wave of tears nobody else is allowed to take note off. "Yes, he has in the past, but now he's furious. It was him who tried to break in, he tried to take me. That's why my room was searched but nothing was taken. Not because it was some freak incident, but because I have a target on my back."

Crystal squeezes his shoulder. Roger glances sideways at him as a thank you for the silent support. 

"D-did he abuse you?" 

Rogers eyes fling to someone across the room. Where the quiet voice had spoken up. 

It takes a second to identify the tiny red haired girl sitting between two larger men in the circle. She has freckles across her pink cheeks. A blush overwhelms her features now that everyone's eyes are on her. Roger tries to remember her name. _Suzie. Sophie. Sarah._

She clears her throat. 

"Because I was. Abused. I always fear that one day he finds out where I am." 

"I think what Sasha is trying to say, is that your concern is not misplaced and that such a bone chilling incident can trigger real fear." Adam elaborates kindly. "The worst thing you can imagine, is being taken back to an abusive environment. Do you say it might be possible your fear might blind your rational side somewhat?"

"No." Roger says firmly. He isn't here to be accused of paranoia. Not again. "Dominique saw him around the building. She saw him with his own eyes, his appearance and name matched my description of him." He glances at Sasha, and loosens the hardness in his eyes. "And yes he was abusive. He's the reason why I'm on drugs. He's the reason why I don't have any qualifications. He's the reason why I got nightmares, scars, not a penny to my name. I only recently began to see what he'd done to me, but now he's pissed that I ran. Your biggest nightmare, my biggest nightmare, has come true. But the police can't do anything without me telling them some crap that'll land me in jail." 

The room is quiet. Only the soft ticking of the clock breaks the vivid silence hanging in the hair. 

Eventually Adam clears his throat to look at Roger. Again they meet eyes.

Roger is rigid.

"There's nothing you can say in this room that will be used against—"

"I can't fucking do this." 

He doesn't let Adam finish before Roger pushes himself out of his seat to march to the door with his arms wrapped around his middle. Behind him he hears a chair clattering and a shout follows, signaling Crystal is going after him. 

"Rog, hold up!"

He keeps walking. Crystal jogs and catches up before Roger crosses the corridor to their bedrooms. His feet automatically carry him to his old room. A pang shoots through his chest.

"Hey— stop for a second." Crystal takes a hold of his shirt and yanks him back. Roger bumps against his chest with a frown. "Jesus you're fast for a skinny guy."

"Adam doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't know what I've done." 

"What has been done to you." Crystal corrects him.

Roger scoffs and tightens his arms around himself. "I can go to jail for prostitution and homosexuality. I can be put away for a long time. And prison wouldn't be pretty for me. The crew has eyes everywhere in the system." 

Anger crosses Crystals eyes. Roger is grateful he isn't alone in his rage, a thin veil over his panic. 

Crystal sighs, chest and shoulders deflating before he wraps an arm around Rogers shoulders to drag him to his room instead. Roger goes without a fuss, leaning into Crystals side while they walk. 

"What Adam means is that they won't just call the police on you. Not for being forced into sex work. Not for rape."

"My relationship with Richard wasn't _rape_." He utters the vile word. "You don't know what kind of snakes are in that group. They might want to tip off the police or something. I don't know. I can't trust anyone in here." 

He glances sideways at Crystal while they walk, takes note of the bags under Crystals eyes, and sighs. "Except you of course."

"Me, and Dominique." Crystal adds. He gives Rogers arm a squeeze to let him know they're cool. 

It takes the whole trip to Crystals room for Roger to somewhat calm down. At least his heart isn't pounding against his ribs anymore and the blood isn't rushing through his veins at the speed of a F-16 Fighting Falcon. 

Crystal dumps him on his bed while Rogers muscles are still tense with mistrust. He eyes the window warily, even though Crystal was also transferred, to be on the safe side. 

Roger flops back so he is splayed over the mattress with his arms spread. 

He stares up at the concrete ceiling. His gut twists thinking too hard when he hears Crystal busying himself making them a drink. His shoes scuffle on the equally concrete floors. Heavy and industrial against his lightness. 

Eventually Crystal puts his drink on the nightstand and sits on the bed next to Roger. He doesn't say a word. Roger can still feel his eyes on him. 

"I'm just so fucking tired feeling helpless."

"I know."

"I have to make an appointment before I see someone. I need to check with my nurses to change my room. I need approval to leave this place. I need some goddamn control over myself or I'm going mad."

Crystal pauses this time. Then he huffs. "I know." 

"I can't fucking stay here. He know where I am. I'm a dead man. My boyfriends are dead men. He knows where they live." Roger rubs his face again. This time less out of frustration, but to slow down the headache building behind his eyes. "I'm in here being useless. Kept against my will."

"They think it's for your best interest." Crystal murmurs.

Roger longs for a smoke. His toes curl in his sparkling shoes with the need of it. He growls in his palms. Every second longer he feels like a prisoner in this place. 

"Hey, hey fuck off with that self-pitying look. Could be worse. We got Dominique on our side. Security has been up to bar since the incident and your boyfriends are aware of the situation, right?"

"Right."

"Good. So quit whining and start planning your way out."

★☆★

"You don't have to stay."

Crystal gives him a hard look, while he settles against the wall with his arms crossed over his puffed out chest. "Don't like having you out of sight." 

Roger grins. "Awww you care." 

He earns the jab in the ribs Crystal gives him. Roger yelps and jumps away. Still smiling. 

"I'll be fine, Chris. It's John. I know John." 

"I know." 

"And there won't be anyone else in the room. Dominique promised me that." 

Crystals eyes lift up to the ceiling. His is jumpy. Has been since Rogers little breakdown. He tries very hard to hide how nervous he is, but completely masking his concern has been impossible. 

"Chris." Roger sighs, his face relaxing slightly. He reaches out to squeeze his friends wrists. "I'll shout if I need you." 

"Please do." 

"I will."

"And have fun." 

"I will." Roger grins. 

He lets go of Crystal to walk through the doors leading to the visitors room. He hears Crystal exhale soundly before Roger pushes the door open and wriggles himself through the gap. All worries and concerns are left behind when he steps into the large familiar visitors room, unlike last time completely empty and quiet, except for one person.

"Roger." 

"Hi." Roger breathes, suddenly rooted into place midstep. A surge of nerves and warmth washes over him when John pushes himself to his feet to meet him halfway. 

He is dressed in his work clothes, green overalls and a flannel. He's sweating and there's a smudge of grease on his cheek. 

Johns boots are heavy on the tiled floor. To Rogers dismay he stops a few paces before him.

There's an uncharacteristic hesitation in his eyes. 

Roger takes in the worried lines of his forehead and the bags under his eyes. It is so easy to forget how young John is. 

"You," John breathes in a dazzled voice. "You look good, Rog. A lot better than before." 

He isn't sure what to say. His tongue is stuck against the roof of his mouth. All oxygen has been trapped inside his lungs, but nothing comes out no matter how hard he tries to huff. 

The longer he is silent the more tension returns to Johns body.

"I'm sorry for what happened. Fred told me they tried to—"

Roger flings himself at John. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and shakes his head. He shouldn't apologize. Never. Not about this. 

John gasps at the sudden hug, but instinctively wraps his arms around Roger too. 

They hold onto one another as if their lives depend on it. John rests his cheek against Rogers and rubs the side of his face in affectionate longing. Roger closes his eyes. He can't remember the last time John held him like this.

Well, he can. 

The last time they were alone together and held each other. 

Roger pulls away just enough to look John in the eye, he gives him a hesitant smile, before he stands on the tips of his toes to brush his lips over Johns cheek. He turns rosy under Rogers touch. 

John tightens his arms around Rogers waist. A grin spreads across his face and he shakes his head.

"Fuck. I missed you."

"I missed you too." Roger says quietly. "All of you." 

"Are you okay?" John asks next. 

He reaches around himself to untangle Roger and take his hands in his. While he talks he drags them to one of the unoccupied couches to sit on. Their knees touching and faces close. 

"I'm okay. Nothing happened to me."

John strokes his thumb over Rogers knuckles. The touch sends warm tingles to Rogers belly. His smile has melted away and replaced with concern. "You need to get out of here." 

"I'm afraid of what he'll do next." Roger whispers honestly. 

Again John nods. His slender fingers caressing Rogers. "I know." 

"And the car outside the house. I think it was real." 

"I'm sorry we didn't believe you." John jumps in, looking sincerely regretful. "That must have been horrifying and—"

Roger smiles. He can't say that an apology doesn't satisfy a little of the anger he'd carried around for weeks, but John shouldn't be put on the stand for what happened. "Don't sweat it. I didn't really believe myself either." 

They sit in silence for a moment longer. Roger flips his hand so his palm lays open for John.

John puts his hand over his. 

"You suppose we have to move out?"

"Have you seen anything suspicious lately?" Roger asks. "Did you see the car again?"

"No. No, Freddie said it was green, right? An old green Ford Consul?" John asks. To which Roger nods. "We kept an eye out, well mostly Freddie, but there hasn't been any. You think they're after us?"

"I don't know." Roger says. "But the fact that they knew your address at all, means that they've been digging." 

He'd hate himself forever if either John or Freddie or Brian got hurt because of him. 

He also doesn't want to force them out of their home. He'd hate himself for that too. He couldn't ask them for those sacrifices, but if Andrei and therefore Richard knows where they are—

"Our lease will be up in a few weeks." John says quietly. "We might get a new place. A cheaper one." 

"Oh."

"I don't know if I'm the one who should tell you, but Fred lost his job."

"Was it because of me?" Roger asks instantly. John presses his lips together in a thin line instead of answering, which is enough for Roger. He closes his eyes and curses. Fuck. He did this. He came into their lives for only a couple of months and they are losing their jobs, their homes, their lives. 

An arm wraps around Rogers shoulders and pulls him flush against Johns chest.

"It was Freddie's own decision to help you and to lie on your record. Falsifying papers was a risk you didn't ask him to take." John gives him a squeeze when Roger exhales, deflating against him and his strong shoulder on which he rests his forehead. "He lost his job when they found the false record. They didn't prosecute him— thank God. He has his own stall now, he sells clothes and all sorts of trinkets he finds around." 

He doesn't sound too happy about the prospect. Roger cringes. 

"It's okay. It's— it's not ideal, but it means we might have to move somewhere cheaper. Back to a flat perhaps." 

"I feel horrible." Roger pulls back to tell him to his face. "I did that. I'm doing this. I'm sorry."

A sad smile tugs on the corner of Johns lip. 

He tilts his head slightly to the left, before brushing his thumb over the tender skin right under Rogers eye. As if he's brushing away invisible tears. 

"You coming into our lives has been— crazy. I won't lie to you."

"You would never." Roger dares to say.

John nods. "I wouldn't. That's why I have to say that you coming into our lives has been worth every other sacrifice."

Roger opens his mouth to protest, but John doesn't let him. 

"We'll get you out of here and you can come home with us. If you'll still have us?"

"You should run from me. As hard as you can. I have a target on my back. They always find me. Why would you—"

Roger words get stuck in his throat when John closes the distance and presses their lips together in a long tender kiss with an air of desperation. _Don't go. Don't leave. Come back._

John pulls back just far enough to speak. His lips brush against Rogers with each word. "I'm sorry, but I want you with me. With us."

Roger blinks up owlishly from Johns lips to his eyes. His own lips still tingle from the kiss. 

"You kissed me."

"You kissed me first." John reminds him with a soft smile that makes the corners of his eyes wrinkle. "I've kept thinking about it, since you were gone. You can't be gone forever, Roger. That's a scenario I can't quite wrap my head around. So you should come home soon. It's safer. We'll find us a new place where they can't find us." 

Roger blinks again. 

"John, you kissed me." He breathes. "What would the others say? Won't they be..."

"Jealous?" John asks, snorting. "Yes. Absolutely."

Before Roger can push away from his chest, John keeps him in place with his hands on his shoulders. Roger only pretends to shrug him off for a short moment before he gives into the comforting touch with the slightest embarrassment. 

"I don't want to cause any—"

"They'd be jealous I got a kiss and they didn't." John punctuates with a squeeze of Rogers shoulders.

Rogers sobers up and he frowns at John. His hands are awkwardly folded on his lap. 

"Don't make jokes, Deacks." 

"I'm not." John shakes his head. And there's a smile on his face, an incredulous sparkle in his deep honey eyes. "I can't believe you can't see it. But I suppose you haven't seen them in a while..." John hums. "Just proofs you have to come home soon." 

"I'll cause more trouble than good. I have Richard on my back." 

"Come home." John says firmly. "Together we can do this. Until you're out, do anything you can to stay safe. We'll do the same."

★☆★

"I need to get out."

"Would you please sit down first." Dominique asks him with a sigh at the end of her sentence. 

Roger does. He closes the door to her office and crosses the room to sit on the couch in front of her. He is jittery and can't find a comfortable position to sit still. 

Dominique leans back in her chair. Her orange booklet sits closed on her lap. 

"Being here isn't safe. They tracked me down, to the very room I'm staying in. They know where I am. You have to help me."

She exhales. The top buttons of her blouse gape slightly. "I already changed your room and warned security about your vulnerable situation. There's a guard constantly walking inside the ward, keeping an eye out. I did that for _you_."

"Thank you." Roger says, sincerely. His hands clasped over his heart. "But what is he going to do with a gun to his head and a knife to his gut? Two versus one. Maybe three, or four. They've gotten in once. They can get in again." 

"You know their practices better than I do." Dominique admits surprisingly calm. "But what kind of coverup can they use if they break in, scour the ward, kill the security guard, kick through doors trying to find you? You see, if you were in your room and they abducted you, they could make it seem like you ran away. Patients try to escape all the time. Yet I cannot see how they can pull of a stunt like this without knowing what room you're in."

"They could send someone in undercover. As a patient or a cleaner. They could bribe the security guard. They could just ask my room number at the front desk again."

Roger pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know. And that's the problem." 

"Roger—"

"I need to get out of here, Dominique."

She eyes him with a hardness in her gaze not directed at him. She folds her leg over the other. The end of her heel taps rapidly on the carpet. Eventually she exhales and mirrors his frustration in her tight expression. 

"I can't just let you leave, Roger. You're not ready."

"Why not?"

"We haven't implemented any strategies. I've just gotten to know your history, it's frankly worse than I thought. Your primary coping mechanism has been drugs since you were sixteen and you dealt with your grief over your mother with heroin, it never stopped until now that you have no access to any. How do you see yourself cope with stress, Roger? How do you deal with the urge of drugs when they become more easily available to you?" 

When Roger stays silent and stiff, Dominique's eyes soften.

"I don't expect you to have answers for this yet. That's why I think you need more time with me and the group, before you are equipped with the skills to take care of yourself." 

"When will that be?" 

"I— I'm not sure, Roger." Dominique adds after a pause. Rogers heart shatters to pieces, if she can see the broken look on his face, she doesn't show it on her own. "When I'm convinced you are able to reign your addiction and deal with the outside world. Otherwise I cannot let you go in good conscious." 

He slumps against the back of the couch. He is angry. Very angry.

Mostly, because Dominique is right. 

He doesn't know how to deal with emotions, with grief, with his drug urges. He had a panic attack being asked to do groceries and he fell right back into old habits. He hates himself for being weak and Dominique for being right about his shortcomings. He feels misled and like Richard had stolen his common sense from him when he was very young, but maybe he should learn to take responsibility for that himself. 

"This is not a time to give up." Dominique says in a quiet voice barely audible over the souring through his ears. "I'll draft you a recovery plan. Next session we can fill it in together and go from there. Is that okay?" 

Roger gulps. "Okay."

★☆★

Dominique's words are still ringing through his head when he comes stomping into Crystals room. 

He slams the door shut. Causing his unsuspecting friend to jump from the bed where he was adjusting the radio station. 

"Jesus Christ, Roger. Are you out of your bloody mind?"

Roger kicks the door with his foot. His sparkling shoes don't give him much protection for the pain that follows. It doesn't stop him from also banging his fist against it, knuckles hitting the metal like door with full force. Tears burst into his eyes and _God_ he hates himself when he gets like this, but he's so angry. 

He moves onto the wall next to the door when his knuckles become numb and his fingernails dig too hard into his palms. Each punch hurts more than the last. He doesn't notice any of his surroundings with the overwhelming rage. Only when Crystal yanks him back by the elbow. He is forceful but doesn't actually hurt Roger when he pushes him to the middle of the room, away from any solid surfaces to abuse.

"Are you out of your mind!" Crystal whisper shouts. He reopens the door again so they are not violating the rules. _Fuck the rules_. Then he turns back to jab Roger in the chest. "You better have a good reason for screaming over Johnny Cash." 

Roger pushes his hand away with too much force. He feels slightly bad at the suppressed look on Crystals face, but every inch of Rogers skin itches too much and he cannot reach because he doesn’t have ant control over anything. He feels bizar. Not like an adult. Not like a person, but an amusing twisted zoo animal.

His hands shoot to his hair and he pulls on the roots of the strands until some of the pressure elevates from his scalp.

"They won't release me. Dominique won't fucking let me go!"

"Gee.” Crystal says. “I wonder why."

Roger shouts in response. He isn't sure what he's saying but his throat is raw from the force he pushes the scream out.

He kicks the leg of Crystals bed. Battles the arms that try to push him backwards, but Roger just smacks them away until he can kick the bed again. And again. 

"I can't fucking stay here! Doesn't she understand that?!" 

Crystal struggles to wrap his arms around Rogers arms and waist to stop him from kicking and flailing all over the place. 

Roger wriggles out of his hug several times before he realizes Crystal is resilient to his anger. 

When most of the anger has been huffed out of him and all there's left is his heaving and red face, Roger slumps backwards against Crystals chest. He is utterly defeated. His eyes roll up to the ceiling and he blinks away frustrated tears. 

"They can't fucking keep me here. I'm gonna be murdered."

"Roger..." Crystal sighs. Roger feels bad for wearing him down. "C'mon don't say shit like that." 

Roger turns around in his grasp. Staring at Crystal with a hard set of his jaw that makes his vision blur. Crystal stares back, unwavering. 

"You're not going to be murdered."

"He knows where I am." Roger seeths. "The only thing between him and myself are these fucking walls. He knows how to get through them." 

"You won't be murdered."

Crystal repeats the words firmly while he pushes Roger to his bed to sit down in the edge of the mattress. Roger leans forward on his elbows and hangs his head down. Even when Crystal sits next to him and strokes his shoulder in a soothing pattern from his shoulder blade to the start of his arm. His knuckles are hurting and the pain prickles up to his finger tips like a hundred needles pinned into his skin. They will swell in the next minutes. Tomorrow they will bruise.

"Hey— hey Rog, think for a second. Would Richard come all this way here just to murder you? After all this trouble?"

"No." Roger says mournfully. His fingers curl in his hair. "He'll torture me first. Maybe make some money off of me one final time. Might take me back home to finish me there." He sniffles. "It won't be pretty, but it will happen if I stay."

He is grateful Crystal doesn't stop his tender ministrations even after another outburst from Roger. 

The white hot anger has fades. He's just shattered now with the realization he won't be allowed to leave before he is more stable. He has never been stable in his life. 

"Wish I could offer you a smoke." 

"Me too." Roger sighs. 

In the silence the radio can be heard once again. Johnny Cash is gone and replaced by a woman's voice Roger doesn't know. 

"Y'know, Rog? Nothing's gonna happen to you as long as I'm in the building." Crystal says. "Same goes for Dominique. She cares. I care."

Roger glances sideways at him. Crystals seriousness is a sober reality compared to how he was before Roger told him about everything that'd happened to him. 

He is grateful. He should be. 

"I know that." 

"Good. Didn't look after your ass for nothing than." 

In the back of his head Roger makes place for the guilt he feels taking so much from Crystal. Before that awful night he hadn't seem worn down by Roger once, but now the stress is showing in his rigid shoulders and bloodshot eyes. Roger suspects he gets no sleep and listens to make sure no suspicious noises come from the hallway or another room. 

This should have ended days ago, when Richard set foot in this facility. Roger should have left then. The longer he is stuck here the more time Richard has to come up with another plan to abduct Roger. 

Dominique had not put Rogers new room on file, which gives some protection in case reception is freely handing out information again.

But that doesn't eliminate all other options Richard could exercise without causing a havoc for the Bull Crew. He knows how to get creative. 

Roger needs out. He doesn't care what it takes. 

Maybe he should try for an escape himself. Would they notice? Would he dare walk through the hospital and out the open doors, only to not return from the unsuspecting smoke break? He isn’t sure if he could do that. Being around people makes him nervous anyway. Plus, the hospital knows how to trace him back to Freddie and John. 

The only right way for him to come out is to be released by Dominique. 

He turns to Crystal. Shifting uneasily on the lumpy mattress. Crystal raises a suspecting eyebrow.

"What is it?"

"Tell me how Dominique will approve me to get out." Roger asks, rubbing his sore knuckles. "I know you know their game. What's it she wants to see?"

★☆★

"Will you wait here for me?"

"No chance in hell I'll let you out of sight." Crystal mutters, looking around the room warily. It is mostly for show and reassurance, because he knows how terrified Roger is being here. Roger finds it adorable and wraps his arms around Crystals neck for a tight and grateful hug. The balding man grunts. "Y'know you'll make me grey before my thirties." 

"And I'm awfully sorry for that." Roger grins. 

He untangles himself from the hug, though Crystal hadn’t bothered hugging him back, and points over his shoulders to the general direction where a few meters away he had spotted Brian, sitting alone on an abandoned waiting chair in a mostly empty hallway, which Crystal had picked knowing the most private parts of the hospital by heart. "I'm gonna be just right over there."

"I'll wait here. Watch who’s coming in and out. Will try not to listen in on your sappy lovely dovey conversation." 

"That's very appreciated."

Roger can't contain his smile as he turns around to skid over to Brian tensed, waiting, in the ugly off green chair.

Roger has never gone up to the hospital before and never thought he would before he'd be released, but when the visitors hall was already booked full for today he set himself over his fear with a lot of support from Crystal. The last two times Roger met up with Freddie, then John, because only one was allowed visitor at the time. Brian had insisted on seeing him too because he'd be downtown anyway. 

Besides, Roger had missed him. 

Roger falls into the seat next to Brian and without a second thought or glance at Brians face to see if he isn’t upset or ready, he leans in to wrap his arms around his frail shoulders. 

Brian takes half a second to react, stiffening and then, after a cautious exhale, relaxes. His arms come around Roger to hold him close against his chest too. Brians chin bores into Rogers shoulder. He doesn't care and holds him tighter. They sit in each others scent and each others warmth until it becomes normal and unmissable again. 

Finally, when at least two long minutes have passed by of only holding each other, Brian pulls back slightly, just far enough to look each other in the eye without letting go.

Brian tips his chin up to point at a spot somewhere over Rogers shoulder. His brow is furrowed, but there's the slightest smile ghosting on his face, he glances down at Roger. 

"That your new boyfriend keeping guard?"

"Boyfr—?" Roger turns around to look at Crystal, standing against the wall with his hands over his chest. Glaring at anyone coming through the doors into whatever ward they're on. It's mostly white dressed nurses crossing back and forth. Roger then turns back to Brian and can't help the smirk that spreads across his cheeks. 

"You're so jealous Bri." Roger grins, even though Brian is still scowling, he relaxes against the back of his chair. "How are you doing?"

"That's why I came, I wanted to tell you in person that I got a diagnosis." 

Again Roger flings himself at Brian and hugs him tight. Brian tightens an arm around his shoulders too. He tries and fails to contain a smile. "That’s— that’s big news. Is it something they can help you with?" He asks, his words slightly muffled by the fabric of Brians coat. 

To his utter relief Brian nods. "Yes, yes it's a gallbladder surgery. It's not the worst. They know what to do." 

"Oh Brian that's amazing." Roger sighs. He lets his bandaged hand travel down Brians shoulder blades to his lower back. He strokes him and keeps him close. The relief sets a burst of joy free in his aching chst. He's missed Brian. He'd worried about Brian. He had looked awful before they had send Roger to rehab. Thin and sickly was his memory of his tall companion. After the letters Rogers concern only grew in proportions. It had been strange for both of them to go from seeing each other every day, to not speaking for several weeks. 

"I missed you. I missed you so much and I'm so sorry." Roger mutters in a rant he hadn't known edged against his teeth. 

"Don't be sorry." Brian whispers against the skin on his temple. His words tickle. "Just get better." 

They don't pull back this time. Roger stays with his face buried in the crook of Brians neck. Brians face is pressed against Rogers to make up for the closeness they had both missed. Roger doesn't understand why, but he feels like crying at the familiarity. He doesn't, because it'd draw attention from the passing nurses. 

"How are you?" Brian asks eventually. 

His lips are close to Rogers ears. He shivers at the vibrations that roll over his earshell. 

"Fucking terrified." He says honestly. He tightens his arms around Brian, willing him to stay put. "They won't let me go yet. I'm not better." 

Long boney fingers brush through his way-too-long hair. Occasionally his fingernails scrape over his scalp and Roger shivers. Brians tone is soft and understanding, even though the news is unpleasant. "What made them decide that?" 

"Afraid I'll relapse." Roger whispers into the softness of his neck. 

Brian doesn't say anything for a long moment and neither does Roger. He lets the warm silence swell between them while he enjoys their closeness. Why hadn't they touched like this back at home? Now it feels nothing but natural. 

Even when Brians muscles shift as if he tries to move away, Roger refuses to loosen his grip and prevents him from going.

Brian stills— abruptly and sits back against the back of the chair once more.

He gently continues to stroke Rogers hair away from his forehead, careful and longing almost in the hesitant tenderness. His lips are close to Rogers ear again. 

"Do your best to get better, please, stay safe."

"You too, Bri." 

The clock is ticking and Roger feels nervous every second he spends outside the already infiltrated ward. His heart is beating soundly against his chest. Roger pulls back, overwhelmed with nerves and a sense of warmth pooling in his underbelly. He sits upright, and takes a long moment to look Brian in the eye. His gentle eyes, sharp cheekbones and the tempting ridge of his lips. 

"Bri?" There's nobody else walking down the hall as of now. It's just them, Crystal and a bunch of closed doors. Roger looks over his shoulder, realizes the coast is clear, he straightens his back and cups Brians cheeks to lean in and peck his slightly gaping lips.

They’re soft and slack against Roger. Brian is pliant and sweet. He tastes like mint and his morning tea.

It lasts for less than a second. Roger pulls back, blinking rapidly to get rid of the dazed blur in his eyes.

Brian looks just as dazzled, his jaw still hangs open. "What—"

"For the way home." Roger grins. He knows his cheeks are an awful shade of red, but it's worth it, having Brian speechless. 

"Get better." He grips Rogers injured hand with a gentleness reflecting his concerned eyes. "Come home. I need you home." 

Roger fights the urge of his lips curling down. He squeezes Brians hand back with an artificial calm. 

There’s a lot of pressure, asking Roger to make his recovery believable now that Dominique knows how much there is to recover from. 

"I will." 

★☆★  
 _  
He expected the tears, a healthy dose of humiliation, doubt and second guessing._

_He hadn't expected the defeated streak in Rogers eyes and the hollowness of his voice._

_"Repeat that for me?"_

_Richard sits on the bed and puts down the barrel of the gun he was cleaning while he waited for Roger to come home._

_There is a tension in the room. One that only thickened when Roger closed the door to lock the others out._

_His thin shoulders are slumped, he's lost too much weight. Richard thinks absentmindedly while Roger straightens himself to speak. His face is an awful pale shade. White almost. Like the milk in the fridge or the tile in the bathroom. Richard doesn’t doubt himself often, but he wonders if this time he had gone too fast._

_Roger swallows thickly. He hasn’t blinked since entering the bedroom._

_"I don't think I can do this again."_

_Experience shows that most prostitutes quit after their first day. Roger wouldn't be different. Most people don't react well to the degradation and humiliation that comes with the job._

_It takes some getting used to. It takes some time._

_Richard watches Roger fiddle with the hem of his shirt._

_After another moment Richard pads the spot in the bed beside him. Rogers feet robotically carry him across the room to comply and sit down. Not an inch of his body touches Richard. He is trembling. Hands on his knees. Eyes to his lap._

_Richard takes notice and to give Roger the impression he's listening, he puts down the grease and the parts he was cleaning._

_He shifts his body to face Roger. Roger still doesn't look up. Richard hums and strokes a hand from Rogers neck to his shoulder. Noting how cold he is under his palm._

_When he flinches, Richard grips him tighter. "It’s just me."_

_"Sorry." Roger grips his knees tightly. His nails dig in the fabric of his trousers. "Richard...This isn't me."_

_"What isn't you?"_

_"The job." Roger sounds small. He's back to being the little boy that arrived so many years ago with his mother. He shakes his head and is forced to sniffle if he doesn't want to openly give into crying._

_Richard opens his mouth, but Roger beats him to it._

_"The job. It's not me— They were touching me. I didn't like it. It wasn't_ you _, I didn't like it. It didn't feel good."_

_A tear escapes and Roger rubs it away with an angry wipe._

_"I feel disgusting. I can't do this again."_

_Roger had prostituted before. Here, in the house, but each time Richard had been beside him or at least in the room. Roger took comfort in his presence. Richard took comfort in watching Roger, making sure he's okay._

_This had been a big step for both of them. Rogers first night out with the girls. Standing by himself._

_It took a lot of trust for Richard to allow Roger into working independently._

_But money has to be made, he thinks mournfully, while he brushes Rogers hair over one shoulder, money Roger consumes by clothing himself, eating and turning up the water bill._

_"Tell me what, Rog. How else will you make money for rent?"_

_Roger sniffles again. His eyelashes stick together with tears. Richard watches._

_"Dunno." He admits. "Could go back to school or work at a local shops."_

_"Does that make you over 25 pounds an hour? Or anywhere near that salary?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Do you have any of the work experience they'll want you to have? Do you have an identification card? Are you written in at a bank where they can send your salary? Those are things you need. Things that also cost money. Things you don’t have. What's your plan Roger. How is this going to work?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"You don't know, you don't know. Roger, these bills are piling. You know this, right?"_

_Roger nods. His head shrinks further into his neck. "I do."_

_"You do." Richard nods. "Y'know Rog, what about I get you some smack to get you through the night, you'll take a nice warm shower. And if you want to talk about another job later, that's okay. I'm sure we can find something. But until then, we have to make this work. We have to be practical. We need food on the table now. Today. You understand that right?"_

_He cups Rogers cheeks with one hand, enjoying the joyful smoothness of his youth, he angles it just so he can wipe Rogers helpless tears away with his thumb._

_The defeatedness has dampened somewhat, but is not gone. The initial panic had ebbed._

_Roger is fragile now. Every interaction, every move, every word Richard speaks will impact his job performance and their relationship forever._

_"We'll make it work. I'll take care of you, I'll always do whatever it takes, for you." He gives him a smile, short and true. "Would you do the same for me?"_

_There is a second of hesitation, one second Richard takes note of, before the tiniest of smiles appears on Rogers worn face._

_Richard doesn't mind. He could wait for eternity to see that smile again._

_Roger swallows thickly._

_"Whatever it takes."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, several things:
> 
> 1\. Please sign the petition: https://www.justiceforbigfloyd.com/#petition  
> 2\. Next week I am moving to a new apartment, so maybe the update will be a couple of days late, I will let you guys know on my tumblr: @emmaandorlando  
> 3\. Please let me know if you liked the chapter ❤️


	22. Of Connecting and Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys adjust to their new lives after the incident that almost made them lose Roger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for returning, sorry for not answering comments yet, explanation in the notes at the end of the chapter. Much love 😘

Freddie comes home some time after seven, even in the hallway he smells dinner he has missed. 

With the time it takes to get from Kensington market to the hospital and home, he usually fails to make it to the dinner table on time. Since the attempted attack on Roger they each take different detours home, in case someone follows them.

It is the same reason why Freddie is wearing sunglasses and a scarf to cover half his face. 

He leaves both on the table next to the coat rack beside the door— which he locks with three different units John had installed for extra safety.

Just in case.

"Fred?" Someone calls from the living room. "Is that you?" 

He shrugs off the weigh of the day with his coat and leaves his muddy boots by the door before he stalks into the warmth of their home. His hands warm up from the walk across the hall. He passes the kitchen but forgoes his food in favor of greeting his boyfriends first.

He finds them where he expected. 

John sits sprawled over the couch lazing his way through the morning paper he hadn't been able to finish before work. Brian is on the floor, propped up on his side with a pillow, skimming through their old records. They are at peace, despite everything, their guards are down, the candles are burning, the curtains are drawn and Ray Charles plays in the background to offer a backdrop to their calm.

Freddie steps up behind John and leans over the back of the couch to wrap him in a hug.

John doesn't startle, in fact he barely aknowledges Freddie until he insistently rubs his cold nose against Johns cheek, begging for attention not unlike one of his beloved cats. 

"You've made it home then." John comments dryly, resisting a smile. 

Freddie kisses his cheek and squeezes him in his arms. John leans into the touch with a soft exhale. His shoulders relax against the couch and he finally drops the news paper in his lap. "How is Rog?"

"He's fine, just a bit upset. His therapist thinks he still isn't ready to go."

A bit upset is a bit of an understatement. Roger is a nervous wreck and the frustration drives him up a wall, which in return doesn't give his therapist the impression Roger is stable enough to go. They check in on Roger every day, but with each passing minute he becomes more aggitated and worried about Richards potential next move. 

About when he can move on with them. 

John opens his mouth to reply, but Brian beats him to it. "It has been two months since Roger went to rehab. How long does it take to help someone?"

"Addiction isn't an easy thing to fix." Freddie tries to keep the defense out of his voice, but his boyfriends are too sharp to not pick it up. He squeezes Johns shoulders and rests his chin on his head. "It is a lot that needs to be addressed, Roger said they wanted to impelement a recovery plan, remember? That takes time to draft and implement. His therapist wants to know with some certainty that Roger has enough tools to not fall right back into his old habits when he leave the hospital. This means he needs coping skills, he'll need to learn what his triggers are, who to contact when something goes wrong anyway, and then there is the regular therapy and group therapy he needs to continue. This is for his trauma, of course. She will also check if he suffers from any preexisting illnesses. A lot of addicted people do— diagnosing someone is a lot of work, especially if you are also dealing with—"

"But Roger is different." Brian insists. "A gang tried to break into his room and abduct him." 

"She doesn't think sending him out into the world unstable, with someone looking to kill him is a better option than keeping him in the hospital."

"That is not the situation." Brian grumbles.

John tips his chin up to look at Freddie. His eyes tell him to drop it, Brian is sick, irritated and doesn't want to admit to either. Freddie sighs, but listens. He always does. John rewards him with a kiss on his chin. 

Brian clears his throat before their lips can meet. He is holding up one of their old James Brown LP's, one that ones belonged solely to John until they became a trio. It is worn around the edges with age and use. The corners are grey with wear. "Anyway, Roger mentioned to me the ther day that one of his 'feelings of wellness'," Brian airquotes, "Was besides reading, music. So I am selecting some calming non-drug related music in case he needs it when he gets home."

John picks up his paper again, he just barely resists rolling his eyes at Brian and his desperation to help. Freddie finds it adorable. He punishes John with a secret pinch Brian can't see. 

"That is good Bri. He'll need to set up a plan to manage triggers, I bet music will be a good help."

"I was also thinking maybe he should have a little radio in his room too. In case he is triggered at night."

Freddie smiles, agreeing with a favourable nod. "That's a lovely idea."

Pleased with himself, Brian puts James Brown on the pile he'd gathered and then reads the cover of the next LP from their old collection. Freddie can't read the title from this distance, but he thinks he sees Janis Joplin on the front. Instead of Brian, his eyes zero in on John, who's still skimming his eyes over the news paper. Freddie leans in to read over his shoulder and sees, to his surprise, that he is activiley reading through the rental apartments advertisement page. 

John must have felt him stiffen, but Freddie doesn't wait for him. he pulls away and stands upright. 

"Fred..." 

He feels the weigh of the day on his neck and his head feels too heavy for the worn muscles. John doesn't follow him when Freddie stresses across the room looking at his feet rather than his boyfriends. Two pairs of eyes watch him pace. Freddie shakes his head. The thought of leaving sickens him. They know that. This is his home. This is the first place they all began living together as a true trio. It is the perfect size witht he perfect pet rules. The perfect distance from town and their jobs in a lovely neighborhood. Besides, Roger wouldn't want to know that they moved their homes because of him. 

"Freddie, we talked about this." John murmurs almost as if they had really discusssed this twenty times before instead of uttering it ones over breakfast before hastilily leaving for work. Leaving Bian and Freddie with a newspaper with potential apartments circled out with a yellow highlighter. "Brian is going into surgery and won't be getting to work for a while yet. And you do not have a stable income yourself. When we got this house we had three solid breadwinners. Now we got one. It is insufficient."

Freddie leans against the wall right beside the window. The same exect window that had caused them to decide Roger was having hallicunations and not stable enough to stay under their care. They keep the curtains drawn now. In case they are followed from the hospital home, which they try to avoid in the first place. 

With his pinky finger he slides the curtain away just far enough to peek underneath. His fingers itch from the dusty material, and he almost expects to see it this time. The car Roger was so terrified of. 

Like last time, Freddie sees nothing but the neighbors car and a young woman crossing the street to get to the bus station.

Freddie drops the curtain and turns back to John after a moment of silence has passed.

"If we leave this place I feel like Richard has won."

He means it, John knows he does, because he folds his newspaper shut and leaves it discarded on the couch. He gets to his feet to join Freddie against the wall, crowding him with his overpowering height. It feels calm and protective despire the difference.

John runs a ahnd down Freddie's arm. From his shoulder all the way down to his wrist, until he can hook their fingers together. He doesn't smile, but there isn't any other emotion that takes over more on his almost indifferent neutral face. 

"Richard doesn't win until all of us are hurt and Roger is back with him. As long as we stop that he cannot win." 

"Another apartment might be good." Brian interjects, still on the floor, but having shifted so he can look at Freddie too. "Not only are we off Richards radar, but if it is cheapter, John wouldn't have to work so much."

John tugs in Freddie's arm, asking, "Doesn't that sounds good? It sounds bloody amazing to me." 

The bags under Johns eyes seem to be glaring at Freddie, daring him to say something he'll regret. He can't. Not without contridicting at least some rational parts that live inside himself. Moving out is the next logical step, but somehow they seem to be moving backwards instead of forwards like they wanted after college. They go from living in a big house to a smaller flat. They go from professional careers to unemplyment, shitty electirc jobs and a second-hand shop. They go from a relationship with a solid foundation to lies and secrets.

They are moving backwards, yes. Freddie thinks, but also wonders what his mother would say if he ever dared to tell her about anything playing out in his life, he imagines she would tell him there is no such thing as moving backwards in life. Life is in chronological order. 

One can only move forward. 

"Yes." Freddie sighs. "I suppose this is what is best for us now."

John leans in for a kiss. Freddie lets himself forget through the tender touch. 

★☆★

Freddie struggles fiddling the key into the rusty lock with his frost bitten finger tips. Brian huddles closer to him in impatience. His eyes bore into Freddie's neck, which doesn't help Freddie's hand-eye coordination one bit.

At least his height shelters Freddie from the wind. 

"It's bloody cold, Fred." Brian complains after another attempt fails.

John is also shifting from foot to foot some feet away. His hands shoved deep into his pockets while he waits for Freddie to open the door. 

"You'd think you knew how to unlock it if you come here on the daily." He grumbles. 

Freddie is beginning to regret inviting Brian and John to see his stall in Kensington Market. If it weren't for the fact that he's still groveling for their forgiveness. He bites his tongue and finally— finally manages the key into the hole and turn it so the door unlocks with a sounding creak. 

He holds it open for his boyfriends. It's Sunday, so he isn't opened. 

John enters first and Brian follows.

They are awfully stiff even when Freddie wiggles between them to reach the light switch. It casts a orange glow across the stall. 

Not that it stretches far. 

It is a small and dusty space, it smells strongly of old unwashed clothing gone musty, even after the thorough deep cleaning Freddie had done. 

He had tried very hard to make it homey. There's fairy lights adoring the ceilings. Every corner of the store is filled with either clothing racks or something to sell. His art or small trinkets potentially serving as house decorating or accessories. There's a small improvised cash register, which is a box of money and a calculator alongside a list of the minimum price for each project. He has to improvise a dressing room— which is a curtain hanging from the ceiling in the far left corner. There is a body length mirror and mannequins he got off the streets between the garbage, now posing in front of the windows. Which have signs with his prices and weekly deals.

Compared to the awful state he got it in, it's practically Buckingham Palace. 

John and Brian are rooted to their spot. Freddie turns to them expectedly. Eyes wide.

"Well?"

Brian glances at John to do the word. Freddie looks at him too. John has this way of masking his emotions very well and only reveal what he wants you to see. This is frustrating when he is judging your little nook in the world after you've lied for weeks about having it.

"I," He inhales eyes slowly moving about the place. Freddie can't help but think of a predator scanning its surroundings before his eyes land on his prey. Freddie. "I like what you have done with it."

"It's well organized. Cluttered—" Brian adds hastily, "But very nice." 

It isn't what he'd expected to hear. Freddie gapes at the two of them. Eyes wide. 

"You like it?"

While somewhat hesitant to fully agree, John nods yes. He allows a small smile. "I do."

He pushes away from the doorpost to run his palm over the first jacket of the 'leather section' Freddie had created. His smile only grows when he takes it off the rack to hold it against his chest. A lovely vintage brown leather jacket, appropriately worn around the edges. 

"Think it suits me?"

"Speaking as a salesperson, yes. As your boyfriend? If you get it you should have it altered around the shoulders to make it fit." 

He pulls his lips over his teeth to contain the giddiness bubbling up his chest in replacement of his nervousness. 

John turns to Brian, asking, "What do you think?" 

Brian is still standing in his spot with his hands in his pockets. He assesses John seriously, with a furrowed brow and a visibly biting the inside of his cheek. 

After a moment, he inhales and gives a nod of solemn approval. 

"You know I love you in leather." 

"Are all your sales this easy?" John jokes as he puts the jacket back where he found it.

Freddie leans against the same metallic rail while they talk now that he can relax. He watches them ease into their surroundings with a swell in his heart. They are hesitant, will be until Freddie can proof the income is steady, but he can tell already that he is winning them over. 

"They're pretty good, actually. Mondays and Tuesday mornings aren't easy, but I make up for the lack of sales in the afternoon and on Saturdays." 

Freddie looks between the two of them and takes comfort in their silence and understanding eyes.

He picks at a dust flake on one of the jackets. He flicks it onto the floor. 

"The rent is lower because I got it on a deal from a guy I knew from University." 

"Who?" Brian asks, as they shared most friends during that time. 

"Kevin." Freddie says and ignores how Brians face twists at the name. As if he didn't buy LSD off him during his entire second year. "He is very different now, buying property and renting it. Very responsible."

"I suppose." Brian says, unconvinced. 

Freddie doesn't care either way. Kevin is only his landlord, not a friend. So he waves it off to push away from the clothes to instead wrap himself around Brian to give him a long hard kiss. Brian invites him in immediately. He parts his lips and touches him back. Smiling in the kiss even when Freddie pulls back again. 

"Thank you for coming."

He gestures for John to step closer and join them instead of enjoying the show from afar. 

With a huff he does. He wraps an arm around Brian and the other around Freddie, before planting a kiss on each of their cheeks.

"Thank you too." Freddie bites his lip. "I know I lied. I know I'm forcing you to put a lot of faith into me, but—"

He is silenced by Johns warm lips against his own. The last words are swallows by the kiss and they vanish in he void of his mind, leaving only the pleasant warmth against his lips. 

John cups his cheeks to force them together longer, more firmly. Brian huddles close against them. 

His stall has never felt more like his own than now.

John pulls back with an audible smack. His lips glisten with saliva. Freddie swallows around the lump in his throat. He's missed their closeness. They're trusting. 

They are healing. 

"Thank you for showing us." John says quietly. His smile reaches his eyes. "This place is beautiful. You did a good job." 

This time Freddie closes the distance, only to have Brian tug on his collar to receive a kiss as well.

★☆★

"Fuck—" Brian throws back his head and shivers, his hips buckle in one fluid movement. His face twists in pleasure before he shields it from Freddie's prying eyes with an arm over his eyes. "When was the last time we did this."

"Hmmhm!"

Freddie chuckles breathily, trying not to break his rhythm where he is kneeling behind John. Fucking deep into his lube leaking hole with each thrust of his hips. 

He smacks against the perfect swell of Johns cheeks. 

John can't help another helpless moan when Freddie takes two handfuls of his ass to gain leverage for his thrusts. He soothes the angry red skin with his palms afterwards. 

There aren't many words exchanged between them. There hasn't been all afternoon.

Since John had come back from work looking hot and sweaty from a basement job, wearing only a somewhat see-through tanktop despite the weather outside. Brian had planted himself firmly against his side ever since he'd entered the house. Kissing his cheeks, down his neck until he was biting lovemarks under his collarbone. 

Freddie had joined them minutes later, coming from visiting Roger. There was already a heat of need coiling inside his chest. It only got worse seeing the two together looking so needy. So happy.

They had stumbled upstairs, all three of them. Discarded their clothes along the way until they made it to the bedroom.

Freddie had first ensured all curtains are drawn and windows are locked— just in case. There was no green car on the street. 

By the time he turned back to the bed, John was already on his knees, working his fingers inside himself. Sounding both horny and vulnerable. Brian was watching, toying with himself through his underwear. His sickness makes it hard for him to do much and the doctors had ordered him to rest. 

That is how they ended up with Brian on his back on the bed, his feet on the floor.

John sits between his legs and gives him the blowjob of a lifetime. Sucking soundly around his length, fondling with his balls, lapping at the head for any drop of precum.

Freddie is behind him. Fucking him. Piercing him wide om his cock, each jab hits his prostate. Freddie knows, because John lets out these beautiful little gasps each time he does. 

None of them will last long. Not at this rate.

He can't even remember the last time they fucked like this. All three of them in action. Loud and uncaring, because there is nobody to hear.

There is nothing in the world stopping Freddie from groaning soundly every time his cock slides into Johns perfect tight heat. His toes curl into the carpet and his fingers clamp around John, desperate for the next thrust.

Brian isn't being quiet either. 

The sounds of John slurping and humming around his cock are accompanied by Brians breathy whines and moans. 

Each time John sucks him hard enough or his thumb stimulates the skin around and over his perineum, he loses himself a little more. Causing Brian to twitch and jolt. He squirms for more and chuckles, breathily, at his own desperation. His fingers tangle into Johns hair to keep him in place while Brian rolls his hips to push his cock insistently deeper down Johns throat.

Freddie wishes he could see his face. The tears in Johns eyes and the outline of Brians cock bulging between his lips.

He's beautiful pleasuring them both at once. A position that can be overwhelming.

But John takes it so well. Up his ass and down his throat. Freddie spreads his cheeks some more to watch himself disappear inside of him. The intoxicating sight combined with Johns hole fluttering and gaping each time Freddie pulls out is nearly enough to send Freddie over the edge.

He wishes he could capture this moment and make it last forever. John hard on his cock, Brian erected between his lips, all of them aroused and energized moving as one being.

But such a thing isn't possible, nothing lasts forever.

Brian is the first to break. He tries very hard to keep his orgasm at bay, but after peaking one look at John between his thighs made his elbows give out and him fall back against the bed with a cry of pleasure. John stays there where he is, between Brians twisting thighs, sucking down any drop of cum that shoots from Brians cock. 

"Yes, yes, Deacky, take it. Take it all." He holds Johns head in place until he is all spilled up. "Please."

The tugging on his long hair has always been a turn on for John. Because Freddie keeps hitting his prostate on every thrust and Brian uses him without caring in the world, Johns muscles tighten and his moans hit a peak when he does too. 

Freddie feels him orgasm ripple through him and hears it too. He fucks John through it, noting only vaguely that John is leaking cum over the floor completely untouched. His cock an angry red until it is emptied too.

Freddie bows forward to rest his head against Johns shoulder blade. John is panting when he finally pulls off Brian with an audible bop.

Freddie rolls his hips forward. He is close too. Too close. He wraps his arms around Johns waist and rocks into him without any rhythm. Just grinding mindlessly until he too finds his release. Coming in thick ropes deep inside of John. Marking him as his own. 

Freddie mouths at Johns neck. Leaving wet kisses while his orgasm runs over him like a warm wave of pleasure washing away everything else.

He keeps thrusting, even when he is completely spilled and overstimulation is making them both shiver in shockwaves. 

"Freddie—" John gasps at another deep thrust from Freddie's rapidly shrinking cock. He swats at Freddie with a breathy chuckle. "Stop that." 

"Sorry." 

Freddie stops grinding his hips, and stills. He can't pull out just yet and rests his cheek against Johns shoulder. Even with the sweat sticking to his every patch of skin and the cum drying on the carpet, he feels fulfilled and loved. He can't get up yet, not even when John shifts and croaks out a moan. His throat abused by Brians length.

"Was that good?" Freddie murmurs against his skin. 

Before John can reply Brian interjects, spreading his arms out with a boyish grin. 

"That was amazing."

★☆★

Dominique is a very intimidating woman.

With her sharp precise eyes and even sharper shoes she dominates the aura in the room. They had been called in to talk about Rogers health, but it feels more like being called in my the headmaster of a very prestigious school. 

While Roger is moderately comfortable in her presence, John and himself are positively squirming. 

"Roger has made me aware of his very special circumstances, and don't wish to put him in harms way," Dominique continues in a drawled accent Freddie places as a southern regional French ome. She means business, with her hard eyes and open booklet in her lap, page marked with her pencil. "But allowing him to leave this hospital now would be very early in his recovery." 

Freddie nods, understanding from the perspective of a therapist himself. 

John just keeps still. 

"I have come to understand Roger will be permanently living with you after his release."

"Certainly, if that's what he wants—"

"I do." Roger says calmly, more serene than he had been for the past weeks since the incident. He sits back on the chair opposed to Dominique and next to them. "I just want to go home."

"We want you home too." 

Freddie reaches over to take the hand on Rogers knee. His palm isn't sweaty like Freddie's but Roger is kind enough not to comment on it and simply lace their fingers together. Roger glances sideways and they exchange a brief smile until Dominique clears her throat. 

"Roger and I have been working on a detailed recovery plan which he should use in his every day life. I want to explain this plan to you as well, in case Roger might need assistance and extra support is never harmful." Behind her on the table she has a stack of papers, after keeping one herself, she hands to Roger. 

Freddie gives one to John and holds onto one too. It is a small folder titled as Rogers Recovery Plan. 

He waits for Dominique to open hers before he does the same. 

In university they had discussed recovery plans and he is overly familiar with them, but both John and Roger are new to them so he holds his tongue when Dominique starts to explain. 

"So for the past few weeks I have given Roger the task to track his moods, write down when he feels happy, when and also why he does. Besides that I also asked him to write down when he is down and why, but also what triggers his bad moods, what the emotions are behind those moods and if those bad moods eventually lead to drug cravings."

She flips the page. So do the others. 

Freddie is looking down at three sets of lists. The titles go from: triggers, warning signs and wellness activities. 

"If you read the first column you read the list of things that have or could potentially trigger Roger. He can add anything to the list at any time. Keep up to date with it." Dominique moves over to the next column, "These are behavioral warning signs, if you recognize them please let Roger know and refer to the wellness activities." 

The wellness activities are things they had discussed together when Roger had mentioned it during their visits.

"Roger has repeatedly stated he likes listening to music, which is a good way to deflect a bad mood. You might want to look into learning an instrument, Roger mentioned you have a piano he might be able to learn play." 

"That can be sorted." John says immediately. "Freddie can teach him the piano. Brian has a lot of guitars laying around." 

"Lots of opportunity for Roger to pick something up." Freddie agrees solemnly. 

Roger squeezes his hand in silent thank you.

Dominique smiles for the first time since they entered the office. "Excellent. Another thing Roger found comforting was reading both the paper and novels. Smoke breaks seem to help too, plus conversations with Crystal. This might be hard if Crystal is here, but at at some point he will be released too. Taking a hot shower and sitting in the cat closet, are noted too. I suppose this space is familiar to you?" 

Freddie smiles, albeit sadly, knowing that soon they will have to give up the cat sanctuary when they move into a cheaper apartment. 

They'll be betrayed. Freddie knows. They'll plot some kind of revenge against them. 

He won't be surprised if he finds piss in his shoes for the upcoming months. 

"Yes that's familiar to us." Freddie replies eventually. 

Dominique hums and lets the folder flip over to the next page. "Good, good. The next part is very important, which is managing a crisis situation." She crosses her right leg over the other. Her pencil skirt sits tight around her thighs. "There will be times that wellness activities won't be enough to deflect addictive needs or panic attacks. In that case I have listened several phone numbers to dial. First if all mine, then the DDU2 ward, but also call 999 if Roger is a danger for himself or others. If you don't get a hold of the DDU2 office but also don't want to call an ambulance for him, feel free to bring him to the front desk. We always have a therapist on site, he can stay overnight to recover or we might consider keeping him here, which happens only with your consent." Freddie nods, but both John and Roger seem repulsed by the idea. If the equally scrunched up looks on their faces are anything to go by. Dominique doesn't comment on it. 

"This plan allows Roger to go back to his normal life, but only if we manage his addiction seriously. Learn this plan to the heart and keep the folders close-by so you can support him in his journey." 

She closes the pages again. John follows but Freddie doesn't. Like Roger he stays still. 

"The next page is mostly for Roger, there he has written his daily plan, with goals he wishes to hit every day. These are very basic goals such as to have three meals, to limit his sleep or time in bed to ten hours, go outside once a day. Simple things. The rest of the pages give more general information about PTSD and the after affects of drug addiction. It is wise to read through carefully when you get home." She clasps her hands together. "Any questions?" 

Freddie has several questions concerning her and Rogers future contact. His amount of self-reliance and what made her decide on his triggers when he had only been there for such a short period. 

But he holds his tongue, looks sideways at John, who in return shrugs. 

"All I'm wondering is when Roger gets to come home with us?" 

Roger huffs out a laugh. The recovery plan on his lap forgotten for the tike being, as well as some of it's heavier contents. 

Freddie feels Dominiques calculating eyes on his face. Her gaze switches between the three of them. Her thoughts and opinions are well hidden behind a neutral mask. 

"We will see how Roger functions in here with the plan, if I am convinced that this is doing any good, making progress, I will ensure him an early release." Before any of them can get up and celebrate, Dominique holds up her hand. " _If_ I'm convinced Roger can recover outside of the ward. Otherwise I cannot allow the risk."

★☆★  
 _  
"Have you seen Freddie?"_

_"Not in the last half an hour no," Brian grunts as he puts down another box on the kitchen floor. They're close to emptying the truck, not that they had many possessions to begin with, but somehow a lot of junk made it into the boxes, despite Johns insistence they should not have._

_His arms are sore and his feet hurt from the many times he walked up and down the street._

_Truck to house. House to truck. Truck to house. House to—_

_"He's such a goddamn diva. Most of this shit is his anyway, so why are we the ones who," The backyard door opens and reveals Freddie in his paint covered overalls, smiling and smelling of cigarettes. John can't even pretend to be irritated. He relaxes and leans on the table for a rest. "Speaking of the devil."_

_Freddie walks over to them, comfortable in the new house, not stubbing a toe on the corner of the cupboard, or his elbow connecting with the sharp edge of the doorpost._

_While Freddie is a bit of a drama queen, he adapts to new environments and makes them his own._

_He plops himself on the table and spreads his arms wide for John._

_"Come here my sweaty man."_

_When John doesn't immediately jump into the embrace, Freddie pouts, exaggerated and childish with large begging eyes. Even Brian is snickering next to John having poured himself a glass of lime flavored tap water._

_"Are you already upset with me? We just moved into this bloody place." He is barely containing the grin that's tugging on the corners of his lips. "We can hardly tell the old missus she's lost her renters so early on alrea—"_

_John slams his lips against Freddie's. Just to get him to shut up._

_He is smiling almost too hard for them to kiss. Their teeth clash and Freddie reaches around John to pull him closer by the loops on his jeans. John gladly slides between his legs, he angles Freddie's chin to deepen the kiss. They're both panting. Suddenly John does feel excited living in a new place, instead of mind numbing anxiety. Maybe this will be good. Maybe this house will be good for them._

_It is the next great milestone. An d beautiful house with cracks in the ceilings and leaks in the roof, a place where they can mark their own memories and grow together._

_"As much as I love the show,"_

_Brian clears his throat to make John pull away from Freddie's deliciously swollen lips._

_He turns his head to Brian and bites his tongue._

_"I don't want to be the only one moving boxes."_

_"Is that what you were complaining about?" Freddie kicks the side of Johns leg with his foot. "I was just having a smoke break."_

_"For 40 minutes?"_

_"It's an addiction you know!" Freddie grins, recalling the absurd column by an obscure American doctor in the paper a few weeks ago._

_"Don't believe everything you read in the Times, Fred."_

_When Brian finishes his glass of warer he puts it in the sink before disappearing out the door again. He doesn't have to look back to know the others will follow. John sighs and puts all his weight back on his aching feet._

_Before he also walks out the kitchen he reaches out a hand and offers it to Freddie._

_"Is your break all over Princess Mercury?"_

_"That's Queen Mercury for you, Mr Deacon." And Freddie takes the hand, gladly, allows himself to be pulled up and down the hallway with their hands laced together._

_John gets his hand kissed when Freddie lifts it to his lips. He smiles._

_"Can I not at least be a lord?"_

_"No." Freddie grins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I am currently moving apartments, which has caused me to have zero time to do anything but move my things. I just barely pushed this chapter out. 
> 
> That’s why I haven’t answered comments yet. I read them and they are the only thing that helped me write this week. Keep them coming dears.


	23. Of Forevers and Laters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogers days at the ward are limited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I just moved apartments this week. Which was crazy. I was alone all week without wifi and it was madness. Some sad news concerning health of a family member, and the protests for black people are still standing across the world.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to the sweet and kind angelbabieuwu. You’re my rock dear sending you my heart.

"They'll hook me back up to my old support group. Forever not alone. Ever heard of it?" 

"No." Crystal says simply. His eyes linger on the radio, contemplating changing it when the station repeats the Edison Lighthouse single for the third time this hour. Way to beat a dead horse. Neither Crystal or himself have the energy to stretch out their arms and bend their backs to switch stations. "What's it like?"

"You'd like it!" 

Roger rolls over so he is sprawled out on his back in Crystals lap. Looking up at him with his arms crossed behind his head. 

Crystal, who's cross legged on the bed, contains a smile. Just barely. "I would?"

"Yes you would. It was led by this woman named Denise, she used to be a prostitute too y'know. When it was cold she always brought everybody a hot meal."

"That's kind of her." 

"She didn't have to, but you could count on her. And besides, I'm going back there so I won't have to come back here every day for support group." Roger eyes focus poorly and from this angle Crystals fuzzy face is even harder to read. "In case Richard is watching the hospital, I can't come back here every day. That'd be too easy." 

Roger hasn't met people quite like Crystal. He doesn't imagine he's met many normal types of people, but Crystal is a whole different breed himself. His lip quirks in a half smile and it seems though his hand twitches on the mattress itching to touch, but he doesn't.

Roger takes the liberty to grasp for his hand and holds it between his own. Never breaking eye contact. 

Crystal doesn't even blink.

"Will you continue to see Dominique?" 

"We have decided it's best if I did, because she knows me and I trust her." 

"What about Richard?" Crystal says, and flicks Rogers hand when he tickles his index finger down Crystals palm. 

He drops their intertwined hands onto his stomach. Crystal doesn't move away from the touch and Roger feels grounded in the closeness and security Crystal radiates naturally. 

He follows the line of Crystals palm with his thumb. He doesn't look at it while he does it, his touch is gentle enough to keep tracing it across Crystals hand blindly. 

"We'll meet every week on another day, we'll keep it off the books too. So there's no routine and no record." Roger explains calmly. The idea of Richard knowing his whereabouts is frightening, but going out into the world is too. He knows he'll need Dominique and other professional help if he wants to stay on track. He couldn't do it before, he caved almost immediately and had taken Brians pills. When that wasn't enough he went out and prostituted for hard drugs. He doesn't want to be that anymore, but without guidance that is what he is. "If I dress up and cover my face and take different routes home like the others have done the past few weeks, maybe Richard will think he's got the wrong trail." 

When his touch grows too ticklish again, Crystal pins his hands down against his stomach. Roger continues to smirk, oddly satisfied he's managed to rile Crystal up a little. 

They had gone through Rogers recovery plan together after Rogers session with Dominique. 

He'd wanted to have Crystals thoughts on it, because Crystal had seen many recovery plans along his journey. 

It sits abandoned and slightly crinkled half under Rogers ass. Crystal wedges it out from underneath him, as if they had been thinking about it at the same time. He waves it at Rogers face, upside down. 

"You know what this means?"

"What?" Roger asks expectedly. Crystals face softens as he drops the folder into Rogers respective lap

"They'll be sending you home soon." 

_Home_. Roger hums. _Whatever that means_. 

At his indifferent silence, Crystal continues and asks, "Are those boyfriends happy you're coming back?" 

"Yes." Roger says without missing a heartbeat. He swallows thickly. _Yes, they are_. He just doesn't understand why himself. He'a the reason Freddie lost his job, the reason why they have to move to a new apartment, why a criminal is after them. 

Another stretch of silence later and Crystals easy face morphs into a serious set of the jaw. The radio plays a quiet song that almost drowns out into the silence. 

Crystal usually hides his emotions well, even now he doesn't show anything beyond the hardness of his eyes, but he picks his words with careful consideration. Roger stops tracing his lifeline to frown up at him. 

Crystals eyes are fixed on his too.

"If you ever need anything, Rog, anything at all. You know where to find me."

Suddenly his tone has changed into something short and serious. Roger sits up on his elbows, lifting himself off Crystals lap just slightly to look at him straight. Nothing in Crystal relaxes. His frown only deepens. 

"Hey what's that tone?" Roger asks and bumps their shoulders together. He also tries for a smile. "I'm not leaving yet am I? No need for goodbyes."

"Well, I'm just saying." Crystal says, he doesn't struggle with the words. Roger suspects he's been thinking of them for a while and waiting for the right moment to voice them. "You don't depend on them. You can go and stand wherever you want by your own choice. Not by a need of survival. Never again." Crystal says. Finger up and jabbing Rogers chest to punctuate his every word. "Don't do anything you don't want or don't feel good about. That means anything. Your life had a rough start and there's so little time to begin with. You owe it to yourself to live life saying no to people, until every fiber of your being feels it's right to say yes. Do you understand me?" 

"No." Roger says, a smile growing on his face until Crystal smacks him with his recovery plan. 

"You little twat." The seriousness is gone from Crystals voice, but his words linger in the room and Roger remembers them. Word for word. Even when Crystal slaps him with the folder again. 

★☆★

"Oh God."

"Don't worry Roger." Dominique smiles warmly and gestures for him to sit down on his usual spot opposite of herself.

Roger moves without looking away from Dominique and next to her, Adam.

When he sits he keeps his hands neatly in his lap. Every tiny muscle in his foot begs to jitter, but Roger forces himself perfectly still. 

"It's usually not good news when two of your therapists meet you at once as a surprise."

"I should have alarmed you," Dominique says in an apologetic tone. "It's certainly unusual but it's not easy to find Adam and myself available at the same time. And in your special case we're in somewhat of a hurry." 

Knowing he's not in trouble takes off some of the edge. He drums his fingers on his thighs, asking cautiously, "So everything is okay?"

"You're all fine, Roger. I just need Adams recommendation when it comes to your release." 

"And it wouldn't be fair to give you one without hearing a final words from you." Adam fills in for Dominique.

They're comfortable besides each other. Roger finds it interesting how women relax around gay men like himself. Adams shoulder brushes against Dominique's as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees. 

"What final words?" Roger asks. He glances at Dominique. Her lips are sealed.

Adam smiles kindly when Rogers eyes land on him again. 

"You're getting a recommendation from me concerning your early release, this'll be based on what I've seen from you during group therapy." He explains. "But if there's anything you think I should take into consideration, this is your time to tell me."

"Did you say anything?" Roger asks Dominique. He can't keep the taint of betrayal out of his voice. 

She opens her mouth to defend herself, but Adam beats her to it. 

"Dominique didn't tell me anything about the reasons for pushing your release closer. But I can guess that it's got something to do with the the incident that had happened. The one you suspect your ex was responsible for?" 

"I don't suspect anything." Roger breathes. One tight inhale later his lungs are on fire. He breathes out and channels the anger through his exhale. "I know it was him. Dominique saw him."

"I did." She confirms to Adam in a quieter tone that tells Roger he should match hers and lower his own. "It's likely he is the one who went through Rogers room. There's no other logical explanation." 

He didn't expect to talk about Richard today. 

His sessions with Dominique have now completely focused on life after the ward. On his triggers, on his coping skills. They don't quite dig into the trauma now, not with having so little time left before Roger should leave this place. 

Richard has become a figure of myth once more. The boogyman in all of Rogers dreams and the undertone of every conversation he has. 

He doesn't like to be surprised. Having Adam sit here is so out of routine it, sets Roger on edge. 

But he is scared to voice small discomforts such as this. It will pile up on the reasons of why Roger should be locked up here for a much longer time. 

"Roger, you don't have to say anything." 

Adam senses something is off as a therapist should. His hands are held up in a gesture of surrender. 

"It was just important for me to ask you outside of the group setting, in a place where you felt more comfortable, with someone you seem to feel more comfortable with too. It wasn't meant to—"

Roger can't stop his foot from jittering anymore. He's lucky of the fact that Dominique's floor is covered in carpet to dampen the sound. 

"I have a criminal past." He cuts Adam off. 

He brings his hand to his mouth to gnaw at his thumb nail. A new nervous habit he's adapted. 

"I did things I didn't want to talk about in the group sessions because I didn't want anyone to snitch on me. Not to the police, not to the gang. That's all." He finishes with a lame shrug. He catches a bit of nail and drills it with his teeth. There's a sense of distraction and satisfaction. 

Adam is taken aback for a short span of a moment. Dominique has the shadow of a smile tugging at her lip.

He knows she set this up somehow, trying to get Adam to recommend him an early release. 

He wonders if she'd get in trouble if she rushed through the process too fast and made mistakes. Addicts are unpredictable. They couldn't blame her for his shortcomings, surely? 

"I didn't know you had such concerns, Roger." Adam says finally.

Roger shrugs again, but just with one shoulder this time. "I know you always say that everything we say in the room stays in the room, but gang loyalty is different."

"I completely understand that." Adam promises, even though he doesn't. 

Roger scratches absently at the tattoo covering his brand mark. The scarred skin underneath is still present and if Roger closes his eyes and traces the scars, it's as if nothing has changed. 

Adam doesn't understand and neither does Dominique. 

"I don't expect to get a different treatment from everyone else." Roger says calmly and he picks up his eyes to look straight at Adam. He needs his recommendation in case Dominique can't gather enough to validate his release. "I just hope that you could take that into consideration, maybe."

"Of course, Roger. I will take that with me while drafting your report. Of course." 

He is nodding frantically, and beside him Dominique gives Roger her own a subtle nod of approval. 

★☆★

"What's that?"

"Fuck off." He scoffs as he shoulders Crystal away from his easel. Soon a smile tugs involuntarily on the corners of his mouth. "It's not meant for the simple mans eye." 

"You know what you need?"

"What?" 

"Glasses." 

Roger flicks his brush at Crystals face— misses, and the blob of paint ends on the floor between the other splatters from the past. 

They each turn back to their canvas when the footsteps of the art therapist approach.

'Art therapist' is a big word for woman without any qualifications volunteering every Tuesday evening at a rehab center, but it's what she likes to call herself. Crystal gave him one piece of advice in life, which was to never trust a white person with dreadlocks. 

"Gentlemen," She stops in the narrow space between them. Roger glances past her to look at Crystal in the corner of his eyes. "How is it going over here?"

"Very well thank you." Roger says whilst holding his laughter at the faces Crystal is making. 

His paintings is being examined by sharp hazel eyes. It reminds him a little of Brian. 

Clara taps her chin with a thoughtfulness Rogers circles of green and yellow really don't deserve, but have Crystal scoffing nonetheless. He can gloat a little when Clara turns to him and nods in silent approval. 

"Quite the inner expression, Roger. We will certainly miss you here."

"And I'll miss this too, you've been a wonderful teacher." He lies through his teeth with a big grin. Behind Claras shoulder, Crystal sticks a finger in his mouth and pretends to gag at his poor performance. 

It works though, Clara smiles and gives his shoulder a playful push. "Roger." She chuckles, before moving on. Crystals art piece completely overlooked. 

He waits until she's occupied with the person next to him before he bursts out laughing.

Crystal crosses his arms over his chest. " _Because you're a wonderful teacher._." Mocking his high pitched voice. 

"Jealousy is ugly Chris." 

Despite the fact that he is an awful painter and Clara isn't a professional, he realizes with a strange tug at his heart that he'll miss this. 

He is still smiling, even when the joke has long passed. Crystal has turned back to his art piece, but Roger takes a long look around the room to take it all in. To remember the scent of cheap paint, sweaty addicts and whatever shit Clara smokes and clings to the protective aprons she brings from home as a curtesy. 

He takes a mental picture of the square room with the white walls and the soft grey floors. The circle of easels and the people painting behind them. 

Lastly he looks at Crystal, who from the side is obviously losing his hairline to the strains of time. He's quiet in concentration, drawing what seems to be a little man crushed under a large leather boot. He wonders what it represents. Or whatever bullshit story Crystal wishes to represent. 

He'll miss this place. He hates that it brings a lump to his throat when at the end of the class Clara hands him a booklet of not only his own small creations that weren't immediately binned, but also a drawing from each of his classmates, even the ones he never uttered a word to.

His final group therapy session the next day isn't much better. 

Everyone in the dreadful circle had written him handwritten notes with pieces of advice and goodbyes, all bundled up in a binder for him. From Adam he gets a large card with an inspirational quote that belongs on the wall of some middle aged woman.

Still Roger finds himself honored that Adam had taken the time to hand paint it. He wishes he didn't care, but the paint is still fresh in his nose and fuck Adam for writing him a note on the back that simply reads, keep your head up. 

By dinner time Roger realizes that his last week has flown by entirely too fast. 

He can barely keep a bite down of his special goodbye dinner, which is normal dinner but the cafeteria volunteer gave him an extra dessert pudding. 

Something odd has happened, he realizes. This place isn't just what he has grown comfortable with, but it is the place he associates with his sobriety. Outside of here he knows he would have never made it. It's these white walls and kind nurses, strict routine, many rules, awful therapy sessions— which all have kept him in line. This place has forced him to crawl out of the debts of his addiction and take a breath of fresh air. He had been chocking under the weigh of his own trauma and addiction. Nothing has ever forced him to climb up before. He wonders if he can do it without the rules, the routine, the constant guidance. 

He hadn't realized he'd stopped chewing mid bite, until Crystals chair drags over the floor and he gets to his feet. Along the way he grabs Rogers shoulder, prompting him on his feet too.

"C'mon. You won't be finishing that." 

He does take both Rogers desserts with him in his pockets. Roger goes quietly, too winded up in his head. 

It's his last night at the ward. 

What if he wakes up tomorrow and he instantly craves heroin so badly he knows he cannot he released? What if he has to admit to Dominique that he isn't ready? After all her hard work. After everything she has pulled together to push his release date forward. After—

Roger startles when he is plopped onto a chair in the common area and Crystal pulls up the scrabble set from the game closet.

He opens the board, sets up the tiles from the pouch. The whole time his eyes are on Rogers.

"So the nerves are setting in huh?" 

"What if I can't do this?"

"You can." Crystal says casually, giving Roget his seven tiles without looking at them. 

Roger gnaws on his bottom lip and the room is too hot all of a sudden. He pulls his collar from his neck. His clothes are stifling. 

"Everything here is controlled by someone that isn't me." Roger leans forward across the table and lowers his voice in case someone is listening in on them. "Whenever I see the opportunity, I try to take it. You've seen it. When I caught you taking drugs, I wanted some too. The only thing that stopped me was you." 

Crystal doesn't say anything. Rearranging his letters. 

Roger licks his lips nervously. 

When he glances down he finds his letters and arranges them with shaking hands. "You were the only thing between me and a relapse. If you had told me how to get it, I would have."

"Perhaps."

"I _would_. If given the opportunity I cave." He inhales sharply when he realizes he's been panting and a dizzy cloud had taken over his head. "I'm scared that I'm not ready and letting everyone down who's worked so hard for me." 

Crystal sets down the first three tiles. It reads FUN. Roger glances down at his own and adds NIGHT horizontally. 

After a muttered curse, Crystal looks away from the board. Roger settles in the familiarity of winning while Crystal keeps score. This he'll miss the most, perhaps, alongside their music time on Crystals too small bed. It's become their nightly routine to finish their day with a friendly game. Roger won't say it out loud, but seeing Crystal opposite of him with his hand under his chin and a calculated crease between his brows, makes him miss him already. 

"You know what Roger?" Crystal says suddenly.

Roger glances up, frowning. "What?"

"Every single day you had to opportunity to walk out of here through the front doors of the hospital, nobody could have done a thing about it, but you didn't." 

He puts down two tiles. Roger doesn't look at it. 

He continues to give Crystal a blank look. A protest sits heavy on his tongue, but Crystal cuts him off. "You're a resourceful man, Rog. If you really wanted to get your hands on something, you would have. Sure, there's a part of you that's addicted to that shit and constantly craves for more, but there's another part of you that reasons and knows what it takes to get where you want to go."

Crystal reaches into his pockets and fishes out the two desserts. He puts one down in front of Roger and one for himself. 

With that he peels the foil and plastic spoon off the top. He licks off the pudding from the foil before rolling it into a ball. 

He pauses with the chocolate still on his tongue, and says, "It's in your hands now Roger. There's not many addicts in the world that I'd say this to, but you got this." 

With that he inches the dessert closer to Roger, until he smiles and takes it from him. 

★☆★

"I don't want to see your ass back here ever again, Taylor." 

"I know." 

Crystal holds Rogers plastic bag open while he shoves the last of his belongings inside. He doesn't have much and the one provided bag is sufficient. The only clothing he's allowed to keep are the ones he's wearing. The other items have to stay at the ward. But he now has his shoes and a bag, which is more than what he came with.

The last piece of clothing on the bed is an oversized grey sweater, which once belonged to Crystal.

Roger cradles it to his chest before he holds it out to him. 

Crystal takes it, but stuffs it into the plastic bag before strapping it closed with a finger to his lips. "Keep it. I can get my hands on a new one for free." 

He doesn't know how to say thank you for saving me without sounding like as pathetic as it sounds in his head. From the way Crystals eyes soften, Roger knows the expression on his face said enough. He hopes everything. 

Eventually Crystal hands him his bag. Rogers hand is clammy.

It'll be the last time they're standing over Rogers bed. They had taken an extra look around to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He hadn't owned much to begin with and anything interesting was given to Crystal if not useful outside the ward. The room is suddenly too small for the two of them and Rogers feet won't move from his spot rooted on the cold grey floor. 

There is still so much he wants to say, but nothing seems good enough for the man standing before him. 

The silence is broken by a polite knock on the door by the nurse on duty, Eileen. 

Both he and Crystal acknowledge her and time running out. 

When they straighten up again, Roger lets his words tumble out in a low voice. His free hand pointed at Crystals chest. 

"I want to see you out of here so we can grab a beer some time. This isn't the end of the road, Chris. There's stuff to do when you get out of here." He smiles. And despite the implications, Crystal mirrors it with a smile of his own. 

"I should be the one telling you this crap." He says while shaking his head, eyes on the floor.

Roger isn't sure if he could look at him either without crying. The tears already burn the back of his eyes in a threatening promise of what's to come. 

"Tough shit." He sniffles, before he pulls the straps of the bag higher up his shoulder. 

It means goodbye is nearing, but neither if them moves towards the door. 

Roger wishes he could leave him something to remind him of Rogers existence, in case he forgets the good times they've had the moment Roger walks out of here and Crystal befriends the next lost soul to give guidance. Though a secret part of Roger holds on that he was special to Crystal.

Eventually he clears his throat. "Remember me and I'll send you a letter with our new phone number." He blinks back his tears and fuck, his voice breaks. " _Call me_." 

Finally Crystal looks up, and Roger is instantly drawn to his misty eyes. 

"Why are you crying? Aren't you happy you're leaving?"

Roger sniffles and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hands. "Just be careful alright."

"God you're stealing all my fucking lines today." Crystal sighs in mock exasperation. Finally he wraps his arm around Roger and they make their journey out the room down the hospital. Following nurse Eileen, who pretends to listen in for the entire walk. Roger can barely see through the blur of his tears. It means he also can't quite get a last look around the ward.

Maybe he shouldn't. 

Crystal gives his shoulder a squeeze and Roger and him squeeze through a door that leads to the hallway up to the public area of the hospital. 

He knows the end is nearing now. He slows them both down as much as humanly possible while still technically walking.

Crystal withholds a smile, Roger turns to him. 

"If you see anything weird, alarm Dominique. He could be after you too." He warns.

Crystal gives a curt nod which is almost mocking, but not quite. He stops walking completely just before they pass the doors that lead into the hospital. He turns and grips Rogers shoulders hard and nearly desperate. 

Rogers tears are freely rolling down his cheeks now. Crystals lip is suspiciously wobbly when he speaks. Roger can't stand how out of character the struggle against his emotions is.

He keeps Roger close. The warmth of his palms seeps through Rogers sweater. Neither of them cares that Eileen is waiting with her hand on the door. 

"Don't be a statistic, okay?" Crystal says in a low voice. "Don't come back." 

"I won't." He promises with another sniffle. 

"This is not goodbye, Rog. C'mon. Toughen up you're making me look like a girl. Dragging me along in your emotions." Crystal chuckles wetly and finally some tears make it down his face, which he brushes away like it's nothing. "Gee I'll be out of here in no time. Stop crying." 

Roger quiets him with a tight hug. His arms wrap around his middle and his forehead drops onto Crystals shoulder. He takes one last whiff. Cigarettes, their mattress, cheap clothing detergent and something uniquely Crystal. 

He breathes him in and basks in the hug he gets in return. 

Some part of him really doesn't want to leave. Is more scared of the outside world and that Crystal will forget about him, but a bigger part of him knows it's time now.

Eileen clears her throat. "Gentlemen?"

Crystal pats his back. Signaling it really is time to go.

Roger takes a shuddering breath and makes sure to wipe his nose on Crystals shirt before he pulls back.

Crystal quickly uses the edge of his shirt to get rid of his tears, but the stains are still there for Roger to see even through his own. 

He opens his mouth to say goodbye, but again there's nothing coming out and Eileen holds open the door with her arm stretched out. 

With no hard feelings, Crystal touches his shoulder and pushes him in her direction.

"Don't forget to send your number."

"Don't forget to do your best and get out of here." Roger smiles over his shoulder. A bad facade nobody calls out. "I see you later, Chris." 

He lifts one hand before Roger is out of sight. Waving slightly.

"Later, Rog." 

Roger allows Eileen to close the door behind him and suddenly he is alone.

Not alone _alone_ , but surrounded by people, buzzing nurses, worrying relatives and clueless interns. He isn't sure what floor he is dumped at, but he instantly sees the large exit sign pointing to left. 

Dominique had set this up for him, to be released through the public hospital instead of the drug dependency unit entrance. In case someone was spying.

Roger wipes his face with the back of his hand. 

The tears won't stop flowing so instead he squares his shoulders and marches onwards without looking back. He disappears in the sea of people the way he knows is safest. His arms stiffly held to his sides and plastic bag clutched to his chest almost like a shield.

Finally when he rounds the corner where the exit sign hangs he catches sight of a large entrance hall with glass doors and he feels the relief wash over him in shock waves.

He tries not to run and draw needless attention to himself, but his legs speed up on their own accord, hasting to get outside and breathe.

He can't remember when he last breathed fresh air.

When the door is pushed open by the sheer weight of his body and the first gush of wind hits him, Roger inhales until his nostrils flare out and tickle. 

_This_ is what he's missed.

He nearly stumbles to the concrete but steadies himself before his knees buckle.

If people are looking, nobody bothers or follows him when he pushes himself up against the brick wall and guides himself down the left, away from the main parking lot at the front. 

His feet move on autopilot. His head is elsewhere, already home or over the moon.

Fresh air elicits fresh tears. He's outside. His sparkly shoes catch the sun for the first time and he kicks a stone when he walks, nearly flies around the building where _he_ had promised—

Roger all but pauses to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of Freddie, leaning against his new car with a cigarette dangling between his lips, waiting for Roger.

When he spots him, he flicks his cigarette away and opens his arms wide.

"Darling!"

Roger seriously can't remember the last time he ever ran, but today he crosses the short distance and runs into Freddie's embrace in case he'd change his mind before Roger would reach him. 

He is caught by strong arms and held close. So close that he can feel Freddie's beating heart against his own. 

"Oh darling, Roger. You're here." Freddie whispers against his temple. "You're actually here. Coming back home to us." 

He can't even nod with how close they are. The words are stuck in his throat.

Freddie doesn't expect him to answer. Luckily. Words would have failed him with the amount of joy bursting from his aching chest. At the same time he griefs, just slightly. He squeezes his eyes shut and thanks the universe or whatever higher power out there for the ward, for nurse Carina, for Adam, for Dominique, for Crystal. 

He sucks in a sharp breath when Freddie pulls back. Before he can protest, Freddie brings him all the way around the car to get him into the passenger seat. 

Letting go is only temporary. Roger reminds himself when Freddie tries to pull away to get into the drivers side. 

Sensing Rogers reluctance, Freddie pauses, and bends over to caress his embarrassingly wet cheek with a kind smile only Freddie has. 

"We're going home." He promises. 

Roger looks into his dewy eyes and detects nothing but the truth. It sets the last part within himself free with a final shaky breath. He can let go of Freddie, because it's only temporary, just like his separation from Crystal.

"Let's go then." He breathes and allows Freddie to pull away to get into the car too.

★☆★  
_  
"Where are we going?"_

_"I don't suppose you got somewhere better to be?"_

_Roger grumbles something unintelligible but doesn't otherwise protest against Crystals tugging on his arm._

_It isn't easy getting Roger out of his bed after he's had a rough night, but it is especially difficult to get him into the public hospital on any day. His nightmares leave him irritable and sluggish. If Crystal doesn't help Rogers mood he will be on edge for the rest of the day._

_"Crystal..."_

_Naturally Roger digs in his heels when they reach the exit of the drug dependency ward. Crystal doesn't allow himself to lose momentum and pulls on Rogers elbow insistently to get him over the doorstep. Even then Roger still manages to cling onto the doorknob._

_"You know I don't like to go out."_

_"We're not going out." Crystal promises. "Trust me on this one."_

_Roger scowls, but with another pull Crystal manages to get his grip off the door and hurry down the elevator of the hospital. Lucky for them the hallway is empty of nurses or patients, most people don't hang out close to the drug dependency units for fun._

_If not fidgety, Roger grows borderline shaky being in public with their obvious patient wristbands and grey uniform clothing, they stand out like a sore thumb._

_But Crystal makes sure not to bring Roger anywhere where people will pay attention to them._

_Before stepping inside the elevator, Crystal cranes his neck to ensure if they're alone._

_When the elevator proofs to be empty, he shoves Roger in first before following. He hits the 'close' button first, in case Roger attempts to race out of there. Then he presses number 6._

_He leans against the wall next to the metal doors. He doesn't mind Rogers wary glare._

_"What's on the 6th floor?"_

_"Wait and see."_

_A groan combined with a sigh is pushed from Rogers throat. Crystal looks at him and his crossed arms, bloodshot eyes, tired eyes, sad eyes. He really can't blame Roger for being in a bad mood. Whatever he recalled last night has left a toll in his physique. If his nightmares are anything like the things that he actually suffered through, Crystal_ really _can't blame him._

_They reach the sixth floor and find it eerily quiet._

_There are chairs and there are people. Nurses buzzing around up and down the corridor into rooms and out of rooms with red faces and hair pulled back into ponytails._

_Roger stays firmly plastered against Crystals side while he drags them both out of the elevator._

_Again, Roger turns to him and lowers his voice to hiss at him. "Why are we here?"_

_"Sit down will you." Crystal says and pushes Roger into one of the empty chairs. Roger goes reluctantly and clusters against Crystal like the other families are similarly huddled together, waiting on the edges of their seats for a word from a nurse._

_Roger isn't complaining anymore, he's simply slumped over and grown quiet._

_As much as Crystal saviors the quiet like any other person who lives in a rehab center, he despises seeing Roger like this. Lifeless and pale in numb indifference to the rest of the world._

_For a moment he lets the silence sit between them while they wait._

_In the waiting room three other families are anxious themselves for very different reasons. Crystal takes in their faces, most dare not to smile yet, but he sees an elderly woman with long silver hair gloating with pride and a man with a bushy mustache bouncing a toddler on his knee, making her giggle to quiet her soft questions that had been lingering around the room._

_Crystal knows that if Roger had more than three hours of sleep last night he could have guessed where they are, but tired and shaken up as he is, Roger doesn't guess._

_Not until a young woman in a white uniform and purple scrubs come scurrying out of one of the rooms, with bloody gloves and a red face._

_"It's a girl." She exhales. Followed up by a shrilling cry coming from inside the room._

_Crystal turns to look at Roger just in time to see his companions eyes lit up at the same time as the family of whatever young girl that's just been born, runs up to their feet to embrace each other and a plant kisses on one another's rosy cheeks. One by one they follow the midwife into the room to greet the new mother and her baby._

_Rogers lips are slightly parted in awe. He is sitting up a little straighter and only takes note of Crystals staring when he turns to shoulder him._

_"A baby has just been born." He gapes in a low whisper. "Just right over there! That's crazy isn't it?"_

_"Yeah, that's a bit crazy."_

_Roger continues to marvel at the moment in front of them. And only when Crystal is certain Roger is completely enchanted by the moment does he dare take his eyes off him. Just in time to see the family cramp into the crowded room and the crying is muffled behind the door._

_Suddenly hyperaware of the other noises around them, they can hear screaming and sobbing coming from other rooms._

_The kid in the chair opposite from them, on her father's knee, has a worried frown on her face and stops smiling to cast a concerned look over her shoulder. Her father again tries to distract her by offering her his hand. She takes it, and plays with his fingers absentmindedly while her father also looks at the door at the end of the hall longingly. Crystal distinctively thinks they share the same face and furrowed brows._

_He nearly jumps when he feels something heavy on his shoulder, he realizes in time that it is Roger resting his head on his arm, not passed out, but with a private smile om his face._

_"You think everything will be alright?"_

_He's looking at the door too, at the end of the hallway. Crystal lets his eyes trail back to Roger, first falling on the worrying father and The periodically distracted daughter. Rogers foot has started jittering with healthy nerves._

_He stretches out his arm so that he can wrap it around Rogers shoulder._

_Just as he opened his mouth to reply, the door of the delivery room swings open and a woman with a delighted smile walks out towards the man, the toddler and the grandmother._

_"Everything is fine." She exclaims. "Everything went okay, just minor stitches will be required—" She reaches for the man to grip his shoulders before she takes the child off him. "Go see her, she's asking for you, and for you little girl."_

_There are tears and blubbery words exchanged that Crystal could swear weren't english._

_Eventually the family makes their way onto their feet to hurry down the hall to the open door. The toddler is calling out,_ mama, mama, mama _. Her pigtails bounce as she is rushed along with the adults._

_Crystal and Roger each find themselves smiling from ear to ear. They watch the door being closed again and the family to meet their newest asset._

_Crystal turns to Roger and offers him a solid nod._

_"Yes. Everything will be alright."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erasing previous end note because a family member passed away and I won’t be updating next sunday.


	24. Of Testing and Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger comes home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes I have been gone for a while. A lot has happened and I have been working through a lot of it, I think everyone is in a dire position rn, so I thank you guys for understanding why I couldn’t update last week.
> 
> It has been hard getting this chapter to finish, it is not my best but I did my best (that make sense?) 
> 
> Thank you all for still being here. It truly does mean a lot to me. Really. Thank you all.

A smile wider than Freddie has ever seen, spreads the corners of Rogers lips to his ears the second he steps over the threshold of the new apartment.

They're currently on the third floor, which was a bitch during the moving process and also for Brians current condition.

Freddie leans against the door after closing it to regain his breath. 

Roger only has one shoe off his feet when the cats come slinking from their hiding spots to circle his ankles, rub their fur against his chins, meowing obscenely for his attention.

If Rogers grin grew wider, his face would have split in two. 

He scoops up Oscar and Tiffany and snuggles them against his chest while having to toe off his other shoe trying not to kick Goliath in the face. 

"They missed you." Freddie needlessly comments. He doesn't even care about how ridiculously wide his own smile is.

Roger maneuvers his shoes against the wall so they no longer block the entryway. 

He turns back to Freddie, who hadn't moved an inch from the doorpost yet. He is too occupied with the surrealism of the situation, of Roger standing in front of him, with a healthy flush to his cheeks, flesh on his bones, looking happy and ready in their new home. Their new start. Soon Brian will have his operation and Freddie has finally gotten a peek of the magnificent light at the end of the tunnel. He knows it's there and all manifesting right in front of his eyes. For once in the past few months the helplessness doesn't have a grip over his heart. 

"What are you two doing in the hallway, you idiots." John comes rounding to corner with a smile and open arms despite his chastising words. "It's bloody cold here."

"Hi Deacky."

Rogers shoulders drop in what Freddie realizes is relief. John must see it too, because he steps closer to wrap himself around Roger and the cats he's holding. 

John rests his chin on Rogers shoulder and shakes his head just slightly. 

"I can't believe you're back."

"I'm sorry I wasn't here in time to help you move." Roger says lightly, causing John to chuckle. 

"Don't worry about that, you're here now." 

He pulls back and brings his hands up Rogers arms to give his shoulders a firm squeeze. 

"You're home."

Freddie can't see Rogers face, but he doesn't have to in order to understand the impact of the words. 

A moment later Roger lets go of the cats, who desperately meow in protest. Tiffany, the naughty girl, gives him a pointed hiss before strutting after him and John when they walk into the living room with an arm over each other's shoulders. Freddie raises an eyebrow at that, but keeps his lips sealed. 

"It's a little smaller than a house, obviously." John says when they enter the living room and kitchen area, "But, it's spacious and homey." 

"Cheaper and secretive." Freddie adds with a pointed tone. 

He puts Rogers hospital bag on the kitchen counter and watches as Roger takes a long look around the room with a carefully neutral face. 

Both he and John are analyzing Roger to read his mood, John is successfully subtle about it, Roger almost instantly catches Freddie's eyes on him and meets it across the island in the kitchen. Freddie isn't worried about Roger liking it or not, because he had seen the dire conditions he had lived in before, he only worries about Roger feeling familiar and safe as soon as possible. 

"Do you like it?" He asks.

Roger offers a single nod, though keeps his smile for himself. "You brought all your vases." He says, gingerly gesturing at the cat shaped decorations adoring the windowsills and television table. 

Freddie grins. "Of course I did. Wouldn't be home without it." 

"Right." Roger breathes.

Again his eyes dart across the room. He circles around himself to catch sight of everything and recognize furniture from their old place. 

Freddie had liked the apartment when they found it. It has a spacious balcony looking out into the shared backyard of the flats. Inside they have two of their mismatched armchairs and couch. They managed to fit the enormous rug in the living room which was once owned by Brians grandmother. It gives the place a neutral color scheme amongst the pops of furniture. They decorated with lamps and beated curtains on the doors, which dangle down in their respective colors, catching the light. They managed to fit in the piano too and display their guitars, while maintaining the uncluttered look of the flat,

The kitchen is small, to fit the even smaller dining table it had to be tucked in a corner, but there is enough space to cook. Plus, they got a dish washer. 

"When is it my turn?" 

First Brians hair and then his eyes peak out from the back of the couch. Roger sees him and his smile magically reappears. He crosses the room and circles around the couch to give Brian his proper greeting. "Oh Bri, I thought you'd be in your room resting."

"I am resting." He says with his nose buried in Rogers hair. He is holding onto him for dear life. "Just not in my room. I wanted to be here when you came home."

"I'm here now." 

John catches his gaze and gives him a look Freddie can't quite read. At his confused frown, John winks, his eyes drifting back to the couch, where Roger had taken seat on the edge and pulled Brians blankets up to his chin again. 

"Are you liking the new apartment?" Brian asks when he is snuggled up and warm.

Roger immediately bops his head. "Certainly." 

Brian closes his eyes with a satisfactory hum. Roger gives him a private smile. 

"You'll just have to stay from now on. If you like it."

"I do. And I will." He looks up at John and Freddie, his giddiness is infectious, even working on John. "As long as you guys will have me." 

"Perhaps you can make a better judgement after seeing your room." John jokes. Half jokes. "If that's what you can call it."

It is a large closet in which they could exactly fit a one person bed and nothing else. Not even a nightstand.

"It's not ideal, but it's cozy and we can put a van in there, in case it gets too hot." 

Freddie tries to keep the spirits up to counter Johns negative tone. He's happy they found a one bedroom apartment with a closet large enough to function as a second bedroom, without paying rent of a two bedroom. 

He reaches for the door and holds it open, the way a servant would. "Perhaps we should go up and have a look. What you say, Rog?"

Roger gets to his feet after brushing back a hair from Brians face. 

He passes John and then Freddie, who leads him into the hallway where the two 'bedrooms' are located. He turns back to Freddie. "It can't be that bad, right?"

"It's not." Freddie informs him. He closes the door to make sure they're not being followed, before whispering, "John gets fussy when he wants the best for people but he can't get his way."

This smoothens some of the worry that had gathered between Rogers brows. 

"If I got nothing to worry about, shall we then?" 

"Yes." 

There is still a lightheaded excitement to having Roger home with him. Without a limit of time or caution to keep them alarmed like their hospital visits. He can reach for Rogers hand freely and drag him across the hall without any hurry or fear. Roger goes without a complaint, the faint air around him tells on his own eagerness. 

It is barely two steps to the closet-now-bedroom, which is located right next to the master bedroom.

He opens the door for Roger again but hangs out in the back to let him have a look of his own. 

Roger pulls the cord that turns on the overhead light bulb. 

While there's no window or high ceilings or anything fancy, there is a comfortable mattress pushed up against the far wall, there are shelves above the bed where Roger could put his things, a power outlet and—

"You got me a radio."

Roger climbs onto the mattress to reach for the small radio on the first plank. 

He cradles it to his chest and twits his upper body to give Freddie a bewildered grin. "My own radio." 

"It's yours, darling. It's part of your recovery plan which we intend to help you with."

John had put in a new pair of batteries too. Roger flops on his back against the small mountain of pillows and immediately begins to fiddle with the knobs and the antenna. The signal is good (for a closet). The first notes of My Sweet Lord fill the tiny space. 

Roger props the radio up against the pillows next to him and settles with his arms behind his head. George Harrisons calm enchantment keeping them company.

Freddie could stand there against the door all day long, simply watching Roger enjoy the music and pet little Oscar, who'd jumped on the bed to snuggle up to Rogers side. Roger only peaks open one eye to see which cat had joined him, before the one eye finds Freddie.

"What's it?" He asks. 

Freddie's cheeks are properly hurting from the amount of smiling he's doing, but he can't stop. 

Instead he shakes his head fondly. 

"You look right at home, darling." 

To which Roger simply replies, "I am home." 

Freddie puts a hand over his heart where he thinks it might swell out of his chest. He can't help the breathy chuckle that escapes his throat. "Yes. Yes you are."

★☆★

Freddie wakes up to the sound of laughter and clacking cutlery against dishes coming from the living room. He tries to find the bodies of his boyfriends, but when he rolls over he nearly falls off the mattress onto the floor with the blankets tangled between his legs.

He blearily realizes they had let him sleep in while they're enjoying breakfast.

If he were a bitter person he would have minded, but there is something completely perfect about the feeling of waking up with the sun in your face and because of the natural airy nature of laughter.

It does take another five minutes for himself to get up on his feet and wrap his naked form in his silk robe. His feet are bare, but most of the floor is either laminated or covered with a rug.

The source of the fine familiar laughter is the kitchen.

Freddie finds the other three men sitting in the nook of the kitchen by the table, having a small breakfast that only smells slightly burned. 

If Roger hadn't come home yesterday in such a vivid memory, Freddie would've believed his eyes are deceiving him in a cruel dream. That it is not truly his two long term lovers and Roger sitting with their noses buried in the morning papers and their plates stacked with buttered toast. 

They hadn't even noticed he was there, too occupied by a joke Brian reads out loud from the Times. A paper John can't stand, but still chuckles over. 

Freddie waits for their laughter to die out before he strolls into the room. 

He makes a b-line for Brian, who has his back to the door. Freddie wraps his arms around his shoulders and presses his cheek against his own. "How come I'm always up last?" He asks. 

John puts down his paper to give Freddie the attention he needs. For a moment John takes a deep inhale of coffee scented breath.

"Perhaps because you're the hardest to wake up." He comments dryly, "Roger over here woke up at 7, fed the cats and brought up the newspapers from downstairs."

"Is that right?" 

A pleasant thrill goes through Freddie's veins knowing that Roger is being assertive, productive, alert, more alert than Freddie has ever seen him. His eyes are clear and his face is vibrant from all the rest he's gotten. 

The rehabilitation has done him good. 

"I don't think I've ever seen you up before noon darling, not voluntarily." 

Roger smiles, despite the slightly insulting implications. He lowers his newspaper to show Freddie the entirety of his face. "The ward had strict rules about our schedules, which included waking up early. And I have to write down in my journal what I do during the day. Dominique would kill me if she read I slept through lunch as I used to."

"And I wouldn't dare lie to her if I were you. She can smell bullshit from a mile away." John comments once again before going back to reading. 

Freddie presses a final kiss to the corner of Brians mouth, before he pushes away to reach for the pieces of toast left over on the counter. He also grabs himself a plate and cup for the kettle already on the table.

He settles in the chair right next to Roger, opposite to John. He makes Roger scoot over slightly to make room for him and his teacup.

After filling it to the brim and reusing the teabag Brian had, because for some reason he only uses it for half a second, he leans over to read what Roger is currently reading with fast concentration. 

To his surprise he sees that Roger is looking through job advertisements. 

He lets another moment pass by to make sure Rogers eyes weren't accidentally lingering on the page, but that he was really scanning the various ads for potential ones that interested him. 

Eventually Freddie clears his throat. "Are you looking for work, darling?"

"I'm thinking about it." Roger drags his eyes away from the paper to give Freddie a look of sheer determination. "I want to be useful." 

Brian casts Freddie a worried look, and John quickly butts into the conversation as well. 

"Don't get a job for anything other than your own personal growth." He says. Trying his best to sound reassuring and sincere. "We are fine with money now."

Freddie ponders if money is really why Roger wants to go out and find himself a job. He can think of many reasons why the idea is appealing. A job offers the consistency and discipline the rehabilitation ward had offered and Roger now has to function without. 

But the ward had also opened him up to a world of kind people willing to treat him right, outside of Freddie, Brian and John. 

This might mean that Roger is longing for social circles outside of this household. 

Or perhaps independency. His own money. Perhaps he's grown bored not working. Brian would be heartbroken, but very understanding if that were the case. 

Freddie's eyes focus back on Roger, who has dropped his newspaper in his lap completely. He picks every word carefully and his eyes shift between each of them while he gathers the correct phrases. 

"I think I'm ready," He starts slowly. Then he lays out his conditions. "If it's a place where they can be flexible with work hours because of my daily support group meetings and if they're not fussy about me not having any qualifications or documentation or anything, I think this would be right for me to do. A step closer to becoming normal."

There is almost a question in his statement and it is in his eyes too, a silent hope for approval. 

Brian averts his eyes fast, Freddie knows this hits him hard after awaiting Rogers company so eagerly for many months, but one cannot reign down someone for their personal entertainment. That wouldn't be right. That's why Brian chooses to stuff another slice of toast into his mouth and shut up 

Next is John, who gives the idea a thoughtful moment to settle, before nodding. "Your safety comes first, before anything else, but if there's a job that can pull all that off, I stand behind you." 

"Thanks, John." Roger sighs. 

The edges of his newspaper are crinkled and worn beneath Rogers fingertips. 

Freddie is still analyzing the ads and finds himself impressed by a local supermarket not far from Rogers daily support group. The supermarket is run by a man with an American name and sells imported goods. It advertises itself as flexible and suited for starters. No qualifications required. 

Roger is still reading on the left page, so Freddie taps the ad with his finger to bring his attention over there. 

"What about that one?" 

Roger leans in and squints to read the finer lettering under the shimmering lamp illuminating the dinner table nook. 

Freddie watches him read and finds himself smiling along when Rogers eyebrows raise in pleasant surprise.

"That does sound lovely," He turns to him and says. "I could definitely work at a supermarket. Right?" 

"Certainly, don't underestimate yourself." Brian says, surprising them all by speaking up again. He gives Roger the slightest hint of a smile, but the encouragement behind it is clear as day. 

Freddie squeezes Rogers shoulder with a serious nod. 

"We could drive by and check it out after your support group session today or tomorrow." 

He fears he might be moving too fast, because suddenly Rogers smile grows a little tighter around the edges as if he was forcing himself to keep it up. "Okay." He says. 

"It'll be good for you to be out of the house and meet people that aren't us." Freddie carefully reminds him of the reasons why having a job would be excellent for him. "Make your own money, get some experience, have your own friends." 

"I'm not sure if I'm ready for many other people yet." Roger says a tad too fast too prepared. Like he had been spinning around in his head repeatedly and enough for him to spew them out on a sudden notice. 

Freddie stretches his arm out to wrap around Rogers shoulder entirely. Roger willingly drops his head on his shoulder with a sigh. Paper forgotten on the table. 

Their closeness is still a rare luxury. And Freddie allows himself to enjoy the wisp of Rogers hair tickling his chin. 

"We'll just take a look. If it has good energy, we'll stay and hand in your application. If we don't like it, we'll pretend to buy something disgustingly sugary imported American food, as our coverup. How does that sound?"

A lazy smile curls Rogers lips. He nods in agreement. "Brilliant."

★☆★

The support group session seems to have nearly drained Roger. Freddie watches him slump into the car seat with an audible exhale.

He waits for Roger to wrap himself into his seatbelt, before he turns on the engine again.

"How did it go?" He asks while backing out of the parellel parking space. 

He'd waited for Roger just around the corner and given him directions on where he would come pick him up, in case someone recognized Roger as one of Richards. Roger himself takes off his disguise, which was the hood over his head and hair, the scarf around his chin and a pair of sunglasses 

Roger sighs and pulls his arm over his eyes while they drive off.

"I'm gonna have to do this every day again."

"That bad?" Freddie sympathizes with a hand on Rogers knee and gives him a firm squeeze. "Didn't you do therapy every day at the ward?"

"Those people were sober. _These_ people are miserable. I can't believe that was me a few months ago. It's like looking in a mirror that's calling you worthless repeatedly." 

"Well you're not." Freddie reminds him while he steers the wheel one handedly. "You're not worthless and you never were." 

"Some of them have relapsed five times, ten times or even twenty times. I keep thinking that's going to be me." 

Freddie spares Roger a sideways glance and sees from the corner of his eye that Roger is staring fitfully out of the passenger window. Watching the world roll by a little too fast. He is so obviously concerned. His foot jittering and his fingers twitching in his lap, Freddie knows he's been triggered by the meeting. Or the feelings that came after the meeting. 

He removes his hand from Rogers lap long enough to flip the radio on. 

Whatever song is playing Freddie doesn't recognize, but he turns up the volume to drown out the rumbling of the motor and the dark thoughts roaming around Rogers head. 

Roger doesn't say anything for a long minute while they drive up to the American supermarket. 

Freddie isn't sure if Roger was still in the mood to go, but he thinks it'd be good for him to persevere through some of his down moods. If he wants to get serious about getting a job, it'd be an essential skill.

"You won't be one of those people who's going to relapse and relapse again, because you will continue on with your life."

His voice barely reaches over the volume of the music, but he still keeps talking. 

"Many people got their lives back on track and then fell back into old habits." Roger comments. He shrugs one shoulder, before taking Freddie's hand between his own where they had been resting on the stick between their thighs. "I'm sorry. I just feel down."

"That's okay. That's very human, Rog." He scrambles to reassure. "We all feel defeated sometimes even when we're not. Seeing people in dire positions can cause you to wonder about your own, they put people in different levels of recovery in the same room for this exact reason. To learn from each other and remember what you are striving towards. Learn from each others mistakes as if they were your own." 

Freddie finishes his speech with the force of a breath. They have already reached the American supermarket a couple of blocks from the support group location. 

Before Roger can reach over to open the car door, Freddie reaches across to take his hand in his one more time. 

"Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine." Roger exhales and deflates into his seat. He tilts his head up to face Freddie with an almost defeated look in his eyes. "It sucks that it's hard." 

"It sucks that it's hard." Freddie repeats with a smile. 

Roger swallows thickly and rubs his eyes. It's only been one day and his time outside the ward already proofs to be challenging. He's asking himself if he can do this. If he is able to move on from a life previously forced on him. 

Freddie sighs and rubs Rogers shoulder in the soothing manner his mother used to do for him. 

Roger leans into the touch, his bottom lip curls out in a pout. "What can I do?" 

"What we can do is go inside, set your life back on track the way you see fit. Get you a job. A boring 9 to 5 job." Freddie grins. "How does that sound?" 

"Kind of terrific actually." 

Roger sighs. A long exhale that calms the storm raging behind his deep blue eyes. 

A moment later Freddie considers Roger ready and pushes himself out of the car. On the opposite side Roger follows him, walks around the hood so they can across the street together.

Were it another world or perhaps another time, Freddie could have reached for Rogers hand, but at this time in the evening the sidewalk is crowded with people walking up and down to go home from a day at work. Some take stops at the local businesses for late night errands, which keeps the nightlife vivid.

Freddie happily blends with the crowd while making sure Roger is with him at all times pressed neatly against his side. 

Shoulder to shoulder they reach the American supermarket, easy to spot because of the tacky banner, colored in as the flag of the United States. 

Roger grimaces. "Why?"

"God I don't know." Freddie squints at the lettering too, which is hard to read between the white stars of the flag.

Roger opens the door for him and holds it until Freddie inches his way inside.

He tries to go in with an open mind. Roger needs a jobs, one that's not too strict or serious concerning government regulations because of his documentation or lack thereof. There is really no ground to be picky, but somehow both Freddie and Roger simultaneously pause after stepping one foot over the threshold. 

"Oh."

"Oh indeed." Freddie pauses. He glances sideways before nudging a now very reluctant Roger inside. "We have to look. We're here now." He says needlessly. 

Roger is moving with stiff hesitant steps. 

Freddie follows close behind him while he takes in his surroundings. The floors are a checkered pattern black and white. Or perhaps once white, now it is an off grey color and some substance sticks to the back of his shoes. 

The aisles are narrow, so narrow that they can't walk side by side.

It is dark inside. Freddie would have wonders if the electricity bill was paid for, butbthe flickering lights over the cash register suggest it has. A dark shadow is cast over the entire store and there is nobody else inside but them. 

"Are we in some kind of horror film?" Freddie asks in a low tone.

Roger glances at him over his shoulder. "I've never seen one."

"Well now you're in one." 

Something about the place gives off a demonic energy. While he had never been a vivid believer of evil spirits unlike his mother, all her prayers suddenly sit heavy on his lips just in case something dark comes slithering around the corner. 

Roger stops walking and Freddie bumps into his back, before Roger spins around to face him.

"No." He says. Tight and firm.

Freddie nods. "We're not quite this desperate yet."

"I swear to God, I'm stiff with goosebumps. I feel like I—" Rogers jaw goes slack and his eyes focus on a point over Freddie's shoulder.

For that split second he fears turning around. He really doesn't want to meet the devil today, not in this shitty American supermarket anyway. When he does turn around he luckily stands face to face with a bald man with awfully whitened teeth, not an actual demon. 

"Can I help you gentlemen today?" 

The kindness in his voice doesn't take away the twitch in his left eye or the glare of his large scar running from his neck and disappears under his shirt. 

Freddie wishes he was somewhere else and clampers closer to Roger. "Uhm, no, no I think we're fine." He smiled shakily. "Right, Dear?"

"Right." Roger bops his head stiffly. 

The man frowns at their antics. "Nothing I can offer you? There's some good deals on the brownie mix today if that's what you're into."

"No, but we appreciate the offer." 

Freddie grabs Rogers wrist and shoulders past the bulky man back to the front door where the remains of daylight are a promise to their freedom from this American hellhole. Roger sticks to him like glue and together they rush their way out, while the man is still yelling sale pitches at them long after Freddie shuts the door behind them. 

They cross the street again, which cannot be more than 30 seconds since leaving the car in the first place. Roger is out of breath and Freddie has to lean against the car to stop laughing himself to the ground. 

"I think," Roger says, also leaning against the hood with a grin between pants. "I'm okay. I don't need to work there. American food is overrated anyway."

"If you think I'd leave you there by yourself, you have another thing coming. No, you can't work here." Freddie says, smiling back at Roger. 

It takes a moment but eventually they each slink back into the car with the realization that this was a mess, but nothing else in the papers had looked like possibilities. 

The adrenaline and laughter have somewhat dimmed Rogers previous defeated stance, but as soon as Freddie turns on the engine, his eyes drift to the world outside and he is lost in his thoughts again without a smile to match the song playing through the speakers. A song Roger usually at least taps his feet on. 

He is perfectly still and quiet even during the chorus when Freddie rolls out of their parking space. 

They take a different route home than the one they took to bring Roger to his meeting. 

The looming presence of Richard weighs on them all. The constant side routes and disguises can become tiring, especially because they don't know if Richard had made the connection with Freddie and Roger because they hadn't seen the car again after the time Roger did and freaked out before being send to rehab. 

That is all quite awful, but most importantly, his presence and the fear he had implemented causes Roger to fear he cannot be anything other than what Richard build him to. 

He needs work. He needs purpose. He needs to learn and be his own person. He, as everyone else has the right to a normal life. The one thing Richard had never offered him and never could guarantee. The one thing that could keep Roger sober and alive for another 50 years at least.

"Perhaps," Freddie starts, pauses, clears his throat before he picks up again. "You might consider working with me for a while?"

He sees Roger turn to him from the corner of his eye. He cannot read his expression without taking his eyes off the road. 

"Working for you?" 

" _With_ me." Freddie corrects. "You would get to meet new people, you would have flexible hours, you'll get that work experience and general work skill. It'll be good for you!"

Roger fiddles with the cords on his jacket. Freddie turns to face him when they stop at a red light. 

He takes his foot off gas pedal. Roger waits for their eyes to meet before he speaks. 

"Wouldn't I be a nuisance?" 

"A nuisance?" Freddie scoffs— then gives Rogers shoulder a playful push. "Hardly." 

Rogers face doesn't ease up yet, Freddie sighs. "You see, working at a vintage store is like working a flee market. I'm constantly arguing with people about prices, about quality, about all kinds of things. Having someone there to support me would be ideal."

"Really?" Roger says doubtfully.

" _Really_." Freddie confirms. "I could really use you there, if you find something else you like more, you can leave with a little more experience and a little more knowledge." 

The stoplight turns from red to green orange to green. Freddie takes his eyes away from Rogers unreadable expression.

A moment of silence passes by. Silence filled by the soft tunes from the radio. 

They bask in the droplets of rain that start hitting the windshield. Clouds have loomed over the city. Roger has his cheek pressed against the cool window as if to blend with the clouds above. 

Eventually he does speak, when Freddie is close to their new neighborhood and scanning the streets for a parking spot. 

"Denise said in my recovery that I should pick myself up at the weary ends." 

"Like what?" Freddie asks casually, while already recalling the mental notes he had taken himself on all the things he thought Roger should do now that he is picking himself up again." 

"Like— for example seeing a doctor. A dentist. Maybe get a drivers license at some point. Stuff like that." 

There is very little hesitance in Rogers voice, which is both shocking and reassuring.

Whatever rehabilitation has done to him, it seems to be mostly positive. If Roger is willing to take confronting steps concerning his health and life skills or lack thereof, he is ready to recover. His heart swells in his chest so tight and fast that he hopes his excitement won't overwhelm Roger. 

"Get yourself checked up you mean?"

Roger raises an eyebrow, but Freddie pretends not to notice while he rolls the car into the spot a couple of blocks away from the flat.

Freddie humors the idea further. "I had been thinking about that myself, yes. We should get your eyes checked too, and perhaps, if you feel ready for that, we should get you tested for any sexually transmitted diseases."

"Oh." 

Roger doesn't look either ashamed or scared, just indifferent about the idea. Freddie had never met someone who's excited to see a doctor at a sexual health clinic, but with Rogers past he couldn't be too cautious. 

He parks the car and brings it to silence when he takes out the key from the ignition. 

He twists his body again to face Roger, who's gone from indifferent to uncomfortable grimace. 

"A dentist appointment and the GP first, perhaps? Give it a thought at least." 

After a careful consideration, Roger nods. "I will."

"Nothing to be ashamed off. There are ads for testing all over the television channels. It's the new mania, I promise the doctor wouldn't blink an eye at you."

He isn't actually sure if that is true. Doctors shouldn't shame their patients for STD's when they should be treating them, but at the end of the day Rogers longterm health is more important than one awkward experience. 

Roger searches his eyes for a lie and when he can't detect any, he searches for reassurance.

"And what if I've got all the diseases? That'd be embarrassing."

"I'll be there with you." Instead of feeding him a lie, he offers Roger his hand, which he takes. "Any appointment you make, I'll be there for you. Or John. At some point even Brian. You won't have to go through anything alone." 

Roger closes his fingers around Freddie's. Finally he exhales and accepts the notion with a curt nod. 

"Thank you."

★☆★

"So Mr Taylor, what is the reason for your visit? Are you experiencing any symptoms or discomfort?" 

Roger shifts in his chair. He rubs his palms together in his lap and Freddie realizes he's never seen Roger this nervous. (If he doesn't count the slight nervous breakdown prior to his hospitalization). 

The doctor is friendly enough, a young man in his early thirties with an inviting smile but strong handshake. 

The clinic is as cold and white as any other hospital, but at least the staff is kind. 

"I just came for a general checkup." Roger says finally. "Haven't had one ever."

"Very good to hop by then." 

Dr Lewis reaches for a clipboard in a desk drawer. He perches it on the end of the desk to scan over it with a pencil.

"I will ask you some questions about your health and past, perhaps we can run down a list of symptoms and see if any add up so we can test specifically." The doctor explains. "There is no universal STD test, so we would have to do several."

Freddie offers Roger a shoulder squeeze that could pass for a friendly gesture.

Roger straightens his spine before he nods, gesturing for the doctor to continue with his evaluation.

"Alright, have you in the past 12 months had more than one sexual partner?"

"Yes."

"Alright." The doctor checks something off on the list. Freddie cannot read the paper even when he cranes his neck. "Have you used condoms and or dental dams for both penetrative and oral sex?"

"No." Roger says. His voice doesn't waver, doesn't shake. 

He holds his chin up higher when the doctor makes another note on his paper. 

"Good to know. Have you shared needles with people in the past?" 

Another yes rolls off Rogers lips. The doctor checks it off. 

"Would you like to be alone in the room with me for this, the questions might get personal now."

"Freddie can stay." Roger says firmly. He gives him an idle smile. "You don't mind?"

"I don't mind if you don't mind. Tell me if I have to step out at any point."

He meets Rogers smile with one himself. He can't say he feels like smiling in this moment. It is somewhat uncomfortable to have Rogers past splayed out before him in front of a stranger, but Freddie believes in the importance of necessary evils. On occasion he has to sit through awkward moments.

The doctor now reads off a list of symptoms and asks Roger to confirm if he experiences any. 

Some are very common conditions, a fever, fatigue, body aches or sore muscles, swollen glands. They're almost flu-like.

Roger denies experiencing any of those. 

Positive with the response, doctor Lewis then continues with the rest of his more specific check-list. 

"Have you noticed any sores or bumps around or on your genitals and surrounding areas?" 

"No."

"Good, good." The doctor reads on. "Abnormal discharge from your penis?"

"No." Roger stiffens again. Freddie hopes he isn't lying because they couldn't have gotten a more neutral, casual doctor for this situation. "None of that."

"Is there ever a burning sensation when you pee?"

"No."

"Any itching, irritation or pain around your genitals or, uh, anus." 

"No." Roger repeats with a hint of relief. He seems to not suffer from any STD aligning symptoms. That can only be good news. 

"Very well, Roger. Any swelling on or around the genitals?"

This time Roger exhales a sound, "No. No I don't think any of those apply."

The doctor makes a final note on his clipboard before he tips his chin up to them. He gives Roger a kind encouraging smile that tells Freddie this isn't quite over yet. 

"I am aware that you've had several partners in the last 12 months with whom you've had unprotected sex with, this means your chances of carrying an STD is high, but because you don't show any of the symptoms, this reduces the chance again." Dr Lewis explains with his arms nearly folded on his desk between them and him. "To be safe, I would like to do a brief physical examination before we take some spit, pee and blood tests from you. I will test you for the most common diseases, which you'll be more likely to have gotten into contact with."

"What kind of physical exam?" Freddie asks firstly, he is afraid he knows the answer.

The doctor clears his throat. It is the first time Freddie caught him break professionalism. 

"Just uh, a brief look at Rogers genitals, if you do agree with that, Roger?" 

Freddie sees the disdain on his face. He hadn't prepared Roger for a physical exam. Now it doesn't seem like the place to turn back and blow the appointment off when they're so close to jumping over this hurdle together and being one step closer to Rogers new vision. 

Rogers chair scrapes over the floor when he pushes himself to his feet with a somewhat drained smile. 

He doesn't quite meet the doctors eyes when he stands up too, but he keeps his shoulders up nonetheless with a confidence Freddie hasn't often seen on him, but fits like a glove.

"Yeah, let's get it over with." Roger sighs, allowing the doctor to usher him to the back of the room. 

Freddie sits back in his seat and waits, back turned to them. 

★☆★

"Darlings! We're home!"

Roger cups his jaw with two hands with a miserable groan. "Stop yelling."

"Right, right, sorry dear." Freddie carries Roger over the threshold before he closes the door with his foot. "We're almost there. Will get you straight into bed."

He hangs off Freddie with all his weight. If they stop moving now Freddie is certain he will drop him to the floor.

Neither bother with Rogers shoes and they b-line straight for his closet-bedroom.

Rogers pained whimpers are the slightest exaggerated, but he earned the right to yammer a little, as someone who's got their first five cavities filled in one day. And two teeth pulled out entirely. 

They reach Rogers room after some stumbling that reminds Freddie too much of his university years. 

While he lowers Roger onto the bed he hears the living room door open behind him. Soon after Brian is joining him by Rogers bedside, in the doorpost together. Freddie notices Brian is holding a bag of frozen peas. 

"Heard he wanted to do it without any sedation." He says, "Thought this might help." 

Freddie leans in and rocks to the tips of his toes to press a brief kiss to Brians cheek. He lets go of him almost immediately to let him help Roger. 

"That's perfect, right Roger?"

"I'm dying."

Waving him off, Freddie chuckles. "You're not dying, Darling. The pain will fade, and now you can eat chocolates without cringing. Isn't that nice?"

Roger is still holding his jaws like a woman cradling her fragile newborn child. "So nice."

Brian quickly sits on the edge of the bed to guide the frozen peas against Rogers cheeks from the outside. Rogers eyes flutter open before he holds the peas to his jaw himself. When the numbing cold starts to work its magics, he manages to croak out a thank you.

"You're welcome." Brian smiles, still with his hand over Rogers on the pack. "Did Fred hold your hand the whole time?"

"Yeah he was real nice."

"Good." Brian grins wider. "Made the dentist any more bearable?"

Roger sinks back into his pillows and closes his eyes. Clothes and shoes still on, but more than ready to nod off. 

"I'm never ever going back to that place again." 

Brian twists his neck to raise an eyebrow at Freddie. While Freddie isn't tough like John, he still wants what is best for Roger, even when it is uncomfortable. 

"He's got his next checkup in six months. He should be ready to go again by then, don't you think?"

"Let's hope so."

In the meantime Rogers brow has gone slack and his face has turned into the pillow. The ice pack stays balanced on his cheek even when his hand goes limp. It is a peaceful sight after the stressful day they have had together. Running from the health clinic, to the support group meeting, to the dentist appointment across town. Roger was bound to be drained after a day like this, at least he can sleep the pain off now. 

Freddie smiles, before reaching out to touch Brians shoulder lightly, signaling it is time to go. "Let's allow Roger to get some rest. We can wake him up after dinner. He can't eat anyway." 

Brian follows out of the glorified closet, but only after loosening Rogers shoelaces some and sliding his gifted converse off his feet. 

He follows Freddie into the living room, where Freddie sees he had made them tea and left it on the coffee table in front if the television set, the grey images murmuring in the quiet room. 

Freddie flops down onto the couch and opens an arm for Brian to join him there. Brian is slightly hunched over in discomfort, but seems otherwise in good condition. Brian sits next to him and before he leans into his embrace, grabs both their still steaming tea cups and settles against his side with his knees tucked to his body. 

"So," He asks while blowing the steam away. "How did it go?" 

"He was very nervous, but everything went well and discreetly. We'll get the results some time next week." Freddie holds the brim of his teacup to his lips, but doesn't start drinking. He isn't sure how much he should share with Brian about Roger, not because he doesn't trust Brian, but because his experiences with Roger can be beyond personal. Some of the things Freddie has shared with his boyfriends prior to Roger living with them, were not really his to say. "The dentist hurt like a bitch, I could tell he was holding it in while we were at the practice, but he completely crumbled once inside the car." 

Brian sighs. "Poor thing." 

Humming, Freddie sips at his tea. Happy to change the subject from the health clinic for now. 

A moment later Brian asks, "You think he's good to come work with you soon?" 

"I'll give him time." Freddie lightly adds, "No need to rush him into anything, but if he feels like coming along, let's say tomorrow, I'd happily have him." 

Sinking back into the back of the couch, Brian looks into his now half empty cup. The tea is with how much milk he dumps into it. 

He doesn't try to show it bothers him, because he wouldn't want to appear selfish, but anyone with eyes could see through his act masking his bitter inner dialogue.

Freddie reaches over to squeeze Brians leg, when sullen brown eyes flicker up to him, Freddie offers him a loving smile. 

"Soon you will have your surgery and you'll be right on your feet, ready to work. Okay?"

Brians downturned lips don't seem to agree, but at least his voice is considerate enough to give Freddie the benefit of the doubt.

"Okay."

★☆★  
 _  
Jer always devoted her life to the values she was taught as a child._

_She is a simple person and lives by the simple rules of her faith that guide her through passages of compassion with modesty and gratitude. To be a good person is to live by good morals._

_Therefore she has been taught how to be selfless and grateful for what she has, instead of grasping for more._

_Her wonderful husband works a well paid job, the roof above her head is luxurious and spacious and the child in her arms has proven to be the biggest blessing of all._

_While her upbringing and faith expects her to be selfless and trust the Wise Lord that she will be provided for when she lives up to her expectations,_

_But there is one wish in life she holds close to her heart. That is her secret hope that the first memory of her son will be of her._

_Farrokh is a jolly child full of laughter and tenderness._

_Jer spends her every waking moment trying to pour all of herself into her loving child, hoping that the images of her, and if not that, the character of her parenting stays with him for the rest of his life. To continue to be the sunshine he is today._

_From the doorway she fondly watches Farrokh arrange his painted wooden blocks by color with a doctors precision._

_His chubby fingers line up the blocks from a dark red to more subtle colors._

_Once satisfied with his creation he tucks his hands to his chest and marvels at his own creation. Jer must admit, she personally never color coded anything better. She hopes that with age his eye for detail remains. Even though she fears what the world might do her sons delicate heart._

_The house is boiling with the summers heat, even in her cotton dress she is sweating from cooking all afternoon. She still needs to clean up the kitchen and get Farrokh into bed before she can have a cold bath herself._

_"Farrokh?" She calls a moment later, and turns back into the kitchen as if she hadn't patiently waited for him to finish his art work before she had the heart to disturb him._

_He must be hungry or smelled the food already laid out on the table. A half second later she hears the fast pit pattering of bare feet on the tile. When she brings his milk and her glass of water to the dinner table, Farrokh has already managed to climb into one of the chairs by himself. Because of his size he needs to be propped up on a pillow. Bomi had insisted on the adult chair while Jer was still apprehensive about her little boy on that tall thing, but Farrokh has only slid onto the floor so often when he got too excited to stop bouncing._

_Jer enters the dining room with their beverages in her hands. He turns up his face for a kiss as soon as he spots her, Jer would be a devil to decline._

_"Did you have a good time playing before dinner?"_

_"Yes mama." He says distractedly. After the kiss on his nose his eyes keep wandering to the covered oven dish on the table. "What did you make, mama?"_

_Bomi doesn't agree with all the coddling. Not when he sees how soft it keeps their son, but Jer couldn't stop now._

_She combs his hair away from his eyes so she can smile warmly at him._

_"I made us kolmi no patio, your favorite because you have been so good."_

_The excitement pours off of Farrokh. He grins and throws his arms around her neck to thank her. "Mama, thank you! Thank you!" He smiles brightly, his teeth flash white before he leans back in to pepper her face in kisses._

_Jer keeps an arm around his waist to keep him from toppling off the chair._

_She wouldn't mind if this was Freddie's first recallable memory when he grows up._

_"You're so sweet my little Farrokh." She giggles, stroking his back. "You will always be mama's boy, yes?"_

_"Yes!" He promises earnestly._

_She cups the back of his head before she presses her lips to his forehead. She hopes he will, but there is no way she can keep him to his promises other than to give her all that she has._

_"You will always be my sweet little Farrokh?"_

_"Yes," Farrokh emphasizes the word. Almost like he is exasperated that she even needs to ask. "But I will be big! Not little."_

_"How big?"_

_Freddie stretches his arm out so that he is pointed at the ceiling, eyes blown wide._

_"So big!"_

_"Well, you can only grow when you eat and pray enough. Otherwise you'll stay small." She ruffles his hair, knowing nobody else will see them today, before reaching across the table to serve Farrokh his portion._

_He wriggles in his seat until the moment Jer puts down his plate in front of him and hands him his spoon to clutch_

_She waits for him to start with a big bite that must burn the roof of his mouth, but he doesn't care and shovels in another bite. She can only smile and be grateful her son appreciates his mothers cooking._

_"Finish it up, my little one. So you can be as big as your father."_

_"Or as big as you!" Farrokh exclaims._

_Jers cheeks are hurting from how hard she is smiling. She reaches out to pinch his puffed cheek. "My sweetheart." She sighs, hoping selfishly that this will remain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoaaa. So there was a lot I wanted to say and I forgot literally everything tbh. 
> 
> Thank you all for commenting and they fucking mean a lot to me. It makes writing every day so worth it.


	25. Of Treatment and Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John likes to take care of people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi babes. I feel so much more like myself today I don’t know what happened kfkgkdks.
> 
> Oh lovies I’m still answering comments right now but by god you guys have been so fucking supportive, it has helped me on my feet and enjoying writing again. I am eternally grateful. A lot. I poured a lot of myself in this chapter and I can genuinely say I’m fucking proud of this little baby. 
> 
> Thank you all. Lots of love

"Good morning lads, do you have an appointment set for today?"

John closes the door behind himself and follows Roger into the small barber shop wedged between a laundromat and insurance company. For its compact size, there are an awful lot of people inside. 

The owner is a friend of Freddie's, with his pink eyeshadow and massive afro. 

He waits kindly for John to join Roger by the small register area in the corner of the shop, the only corner not occupied by a large mirror or highchair. 

"We have an appointment for Roger Taylor, eleven?" 

"Roger Taylor... Roger Tay-" The owners finger runs down the page of his book until he stops by presumably Rogers name. "Roger Taylor!" He flips it shut with an excited smile curling across his face. "You're Freddie's darling!" 

His smile is infectious and Roger is grinning before he's even being ushered to one of the few empty chairs in the joint.

"You know Freddie?"

"Yes yes I do, hon. Take a seat. I promised him I'd give you an extra special treatment."

He shoots Roger a wink, before heading into the back to assumingely grab his tools. 

John walks up to Roger and leans against the Hollywood style mirror with the little light bulbs around the frame and small vanity to prop things up against. 

"Is this where the gays gather?" Roger asks when the hairdresser is out of earshot.

John finds himself struggling not to smile like an idiot. His cheek muscles are screaming against the downturned oppression. 

"Freddie has been coming here for years, so I suppose yes." He never came along, because he cuts his own in the bathroom mirror. If he needs a bigger chop he asks his mum. Paying a full fee for a scissors cut always seemed excessive to him, but for Roger Freddie managed to get a discount because of his friend and besides, he had _really_ butchered Rogers hair beyond easy repair. "Are you excited?"

"Well I suppose." Roger hums. He looks at himself in the mirror and fluffs his hair at the top and runs his fingers through to the bottom. "It's gotten too long." 

"You look like a girl." John blurts out without thinking. 

Freddie would have been horrified had he been here, but Roger just chuckles and aims to kick Johns shins from his chair. 

Their teasing is interrupted when the hairdresser returns with a tool belt around his waist. He leans against the back of Rogers chair and ducks his neck so they look at each other in the mirror. 

"You've got some lushes locks, Roggie. What do you want me to do with it?"

"Something presentable for a starts, but I want to look fashionable and fresh."

" _Fashionable_." He clicks his tongue and runs his long dark fingers through Rogers tresses with the care of a gardener examining his prestigious roses. His attention goes to the darker roots of Rogers hair and he parts it in different sections to examine the scalp. The smile on his face turns slightly down. "Oh dear, I'll take good care of you. Not a worry in the world."

"Great."

"But—" He wags his finger in the air. "You need a good wash and scalp massage, honey."

Roger tips his chin up to grin at him. "I won't object to that." 

One moment later, Angelo, which is apparently his name, guides Rogers head back until he is leaning over the salon basin brought out for him. Angelo makes sure the water is warm, before he sprays Rogers hair down until it sticks to his cheeks and forehead.

John stands by his side making idle comments here and there when he feels comfortable, while Roger is being pampered. 

And how pampered he is. Angelo sticks to his promise and takes good care of Roger. His eyes flutter closed when Anglos fingers knead gently into the skin of his scalp with foaming shampoo. He hums appreciatively when it is washed down with warm water again, provoking Angelo into sending John a smug grin Roger can't see with his eyes shut. 

The treatment is followed by a conditioner that scents up the rest of the shop and gets envious stares from other patrons. Angelo just leans in to whisper into Rogers ear that, "Ointment scalp massages are only for our VIP customers." 

Roger just smiles dreamily. Johns heart swells at the sight, he hasn't seen Roger comfortable with strangers. Never. 

It makes for a fine change to see him grin while his hair gets toweled down by Angelo moments later, before he is guided back to an upright position. Angelo gets rid of the towel and basinet before he returns with a comb he took from his tool belt. Roger keeps his eyes gently shut while Angelo combs the knots from his hair, until the teeth of the comb slide through with smooth ease. Now it is even more visible how uneven all the ends are cut. 

"Like a knife through butter." Angelo murmurs. He makes a half circle around Roger to make sure everything seems sorted for now.

When Rogers hair is parted through the middle, Angelo grabs his scissors to start the real thing. He taps Rogers shoulder to make him open his eyes and face him in the mirror. 

"Are you sure you want to go for young and trendy? I'll chop off quite some." 

"I'm not attached to it." Roger says. "I walked around with _this_ hairstyle, whatever you're gonna do can't be half as bad."

"I love your level of confidence." 

Angelo starts a good ten centimeters from Rogers ends so that his hair reaches a little above the shoulder. John holds his breath until the sheath of the scissor parts the sections. One stays on Rogers head, dangling in thick tresses from his scalp with a slight wisp at the bottom. The other section falls onto the floor of the salon.

Roger stares at himself blankly through the mirror. He examines himself carefully while Angelo snips off the next section too.

He isn't just looking at his hair, John realizes, Roger dares to tip his chin the slightest, only to get a warning tap from Angelo. John sees he is looking at himself with something close to bewilderment. If John hadn't visited the ward a lot by the end of Rogers time there, he would have been really shocked by the person Roger has become in such a short time. There are no bags under his eyes or lasting imprints from a frown. His lips are perfectly hydrated and so is the rest of his skin. He is glowing and warm. His cheeks are filled out with fat and the rest of his body has strengthened in muscles. He was nothing but a skeleton on pills before this went down, but now...

His eyes keep drifting to Rogers eyes and the reassurance in them. The lack of fear that would have made John jealous were Roger anybody else. 

"I'm gonna blow you now." Angelo says just as he finishes with the last bits of Rogers apparent fringe. "Blow-dry, that is."

Roger is too excited to deadpan over the poor jokes. He keeps sending John excited smiles while Angelo blows all the wet droplets from his hair. Roger had to close his eyes during the treatment, but when he comes out and Angelo steps out of the way for Roger to look at himself now with the fresh cut in the large Hollywood lighted mirror. 

"So," Angelos has his scissors and comb in hand, clutched to his chest. "What do you think?"

He steps aside for John to also have a good look in the mirror and Rogers reaction. Personally John loves it, with the subtle fringe that can be tucked behind the ear and the locks reaching a perfect length while looking thicker and healthier than before, but not everything he likes is not poor taste, according to Freddie. 

Angelo rocks on the back of his heels, fingers crossed. 

The silence grows thick and pregnant by the time Roger pushes himself to his feet and throws himself at Angelo. A poor unsuspecting Angelo, who stumbled backwards into another client who was getting a shave.

"Thank you!" Roger exclaims carelessly. "I love it! Don't you love it Deacky?" 

John shakes his head at his antics, chuckling, "Yes, I love it." 

★☆★

"Brian fell asleep." 

Roger drops the book he was reading in his lap. His pinched expression turns into a smug lopsided smile. "My, my John. And what brings you here to my secret lair?" 

"Freddie is at his mums, Brian is knocked out from his pills," He is leaning against the doorpost to Rogers room nonchalantly. He runs his palm down to the wood post and props himself up against it. "That means that we got a moment alone."

"Is that so?" Roger asks oh so calm. His act wouldn't have been considered poor if he wasn't hurrying to bookmark his page and put his book on the side. 

He sits upright just in time for John to climb on the bed and plop himself into Rogers lap.

He steadies himself with an arm around Rogers shoulder. He probably should close the door before doing this, because they have been so discreet lately, but he can't say he would mind very much if one of his boyfriends came in to see him guide Rogers chin up for a long welcoming kiss. 

Rogers lips are warm beneath his and slack with trust. John cups Rogers cheeks to keep him still while he presses soft feather like kisses to his plum lips.

It doesn't go on for long, before Roger part his lips to take Johns bottom lip between his to peck the sensitive skin. 

Tingling sensations travel from Johns face to the rest of his body. He finds it hard to stay still while straddling Roger on his bed. He brushes his thumb over Rogers cheek while his lip is being nibbled and exposed with tender care. 

Roger isn't new to kissing, certainly not, but there is a self consciousness rooted in experience of the kind of kissing that they do.

John rakes his fingers down Rogers neck to his shoulders, until he has a strong grip to roll them over.

At first Roger shrieks and holds onto him for dear life, until he realizes John merely flipped them over so that Roger is the one sat on top with John flat on his back. The situation suits him perfectly, with a pink rosy glow to his cheeks he bows forward to connect their lips again. This time Roger takes a bold dive and licks his way into Johns mouth. 

John lays back with his closed. He allows Roger to put his hands up against the mattress and then intertwine their fingers. 

Roger is hungry tonight. His tongue moves against Johns, exploring the warmth of his mouth while teasing him by pulling away after several moments, mostly to regain his breath. Whenever he does, he stays as close to John as possible, breathing with face buried into his neck and their hands squeezing each other back. 

There's a lot of laughter in Roger, John notes in moments like this. That Rogers natural state of being isn't fearful or numb with drugs, but radiant and full of joy. 

Roger props himself up on his elbows so he can stare into Johns eyes. They are entirely too close and Roger is nearly crossed eyes with it. 

"What are you thinking about?"

"You." He answers honestly. The dazed look in Rogers eyes intensifies and Johns heart swells terribly in his chest, pressed against Rogers chest. It makes the blond seem even heavier, but John wouldn't dare complain about suffering right now in such a perfect moment. 

Rogers lips are slightly swollen and glistening with saliva, a mixture of theirs. "What could you possibly be thinking about while the real thing is sitting right on top of you?"

"That's just me being silly." 

John blinks up heavily. He longs to touch Rogers hair (decent looking hair, finally) and he longs to kiss that sloppy smile off his face. 

Freddie and Brian are beautiful, but Roger is a different kind of beautiful. The ethereal kind. Someone who could be depicted on a roman statue, or a prestigious renaissance painting in the Louvre. John finds it harder to breath every time he thinks of Roger as a potential part of his permanent future, but that might also be his air circulation getting cut off.

"You're heavy." He says after a beat of silence.

Roger takes no offense, none at all, he sits upright and drags John along with him to attach their lips again. 

John manages a lungful of oxygen before his face is getting sucked again. 

Their eagerness is prevalent, but neither of them pays any mind to their pressing hardness in their pajama bottoms. The first time it happened, John had gotten quite flustered, but when he realized these sessions aroused Roger just as much, made him more at ease.

He doesn't push Roger for more and doesn't take their current connections for granted. He isn't sure if Roger is ready for more, but John certainly wouldn't go through without explicit consent from his boyfriends, but that is a conversation waiting to happen after Brians surgery is out of the way. A much more pressing matter than the underlying sexual tension and frankly, enormous elephant in the room.

"Stop thinking you idiot." Roger rasps between kisses, he grins again, before biting hard on Johns bottom lip, and then lick it apologetically when John lets out a heady gasp. "Sorry."

"You're fine." John murmurs against his lips, squeezing Rogers hand in his. "Continue."

★☆★

Even though it is considered a minor procedure, everyone is very tense during their drive to the hospital and the walk to Brians room. 

They aren't all allowed to be there with him, and while two would wait outside, one could come with Brian while he is being prepared for the surgery. It had been a toss up between John and Freddie, but eventually John won out because surgery seems to make Freddie squeamish. 

Brian had said his goodbyes and gotten his hugs before he and John made their way to the preparation room shared with several others. 

The nurse did draw the curtain before preparing Brian on the bed. 

They had spend the previous week in and out of the hospital the for a final number of blood tests and x-rays. After analyzing those, Brian was still approved for surgery. He then met his anesthesiologist, who is present now as well. 

"For the procedure you will he under general anesthesia like we discussed. I will be there to monitor your vitals, make sure you are well under." 

She is a nice woman with a tight red ponytail. She watches while Brian climbs onto the bed with Johns assistance. 

He has been wobbly all day, because he hasn't been allowed to eat the last eight hours. Neither was he allowed his usual pain relief. 

John tries to get Brian as comfortable as one can be in a hospital in a gown and ready to be cut open. He fluffs his pillow up and stays by his side like a rock. The nurse and anesthesiologist don't utter a word about their intertwined hands.

There is an honest fear in Brians eyes, which are surrounded by hollow black circles. 

A laparoscopic cholecystectomy is neither risky or very painful because new methods only work with small incisions, instead of one stomach wide scar. John read about a lot of things because he knows would ease his mind. Facts and logic keep his feet on the floor, usually Brian is his companion in science, but not when his fragile emotions are so heavily involved.

When John had been researching the types of tools and knives that would be used, Brian hadn't wanted to be in the room.

When doctors explained step by step how the procedure would go, Brian had grown green around the edges. 

Maybe it's different because it's not about himself. He knows it won't be him getting an organ cut out. Perhaps in his mind he can disassociate himself enough to extract the emotion from the surgery. He knows that used to help when his father was the one laying in the hospital bed and John would hold his hand too, let his mind drift out and away from his body. He scares himself sometimes, with how hollow he can make himself feel. 

"How are you feeling?"

"Scared." Brian says a tad too fast. He is staring past John right to the harsh ceiling light. "I'm scared."

John can tell that he is speaking in a low robotic voice, but he can't say the words accumulate through every passage of his brain. They have made a shortcut right from the information center to his lips. Passing over any emotional filters that could come in handy for normal people in his position.

But then again, if Brian wanted emotional and dramatic, he would have asked for Freddie specifically. 

"It is a normal procedure and easy compared to the complex surgeries they also do on a daily basis. You don't need a gallbladder." 

"All will be fine?" Brians eyes shift over so they meet each other. 

John squeezes their hands and lets the hopefulness in Brians voice not tip him over emotionally. "It will be okay." 

Brian inhales tightly and closes his eyes while the anesthesiologist begins to apply the intravenous line to Brians up turned arm. She works quietly, like a shadow pretending to be deaf to their conversation. While it might be too much for Brian to look at her work, John is fascinated and watches her insert the clear tube into his blue vein. 

"Will you keep Fred calm? And Roger. I'm not sure how he would react, but..."

"I will." 

John rubs his thumb over Brians knuckles, he feels almost numb doing it, a practiced muscle memorized movement, but that doesn't stop him from continuing his touch. He knows it calms Brian down.

He takes a shuddering breath. He must be cold in the thin gown he was given. 

John opens his mouth to comment, but he is interrupted by the anesthesiologist. A nurse is also standing by the foot of the bed, ready to roll it out it seems. Brian reopens his eyes to pay attention too.

"Are you ready for the surgery?" 

Brian swallows thickly. John watches his Adams apple bop past a lump. "John can stay?" 

"We will bring you to the operation room now. He can wait outside until we have brought you to the recovery room." The anesthesiologist says kindly, but firm enough to make Brian press his lips shut. "We will give you your muscle relaxants and anesthesia inside. Alright?" 

John can tell Brian is working himself up into a fit. His face crumbles into a frown with downturned lips. He looks frantically at John and then the nurse and anesthesiologist. 

John is certain they have seen it all, from grown men to children. 

Neither bats an eye when John leans over to shush Brian quiet. 

"Bri, I'm gonna be just in the other room. Like five steps away from you. You might not see me but I will be there, plus, you're gonna be asleep the whole time." He reminds him. "We are the ones doing the waiting and most of the suffering." He jokes lamely.

Brian huffs. Maybe it is a bad joke but at least his chest isn't tightly winded with tension.

On the bed, Brian takes a deep breath to regain his posture. 

John gives his hand a final squeeze when he opens his eyes again. "You'll be fine." He repeats like a android parrot. "I'll be right on the other side of the wall."

"Okay..."

"Okay." John lets go of his hand and waits for Brians grip to slacken before he pulls back.

The nurse pushes the curtain away, another two join to guide Brian, bed and all, out of the room. John steps back so his toes don't get crushed under the wheels. 

They don't exchange another word, but Brian keeps looking at John all the way until he is rounded out of the room.

John lets several seconds pass by before his legs come back into motion.

He follows the imaginary trail of the bed that's already out of sight. Down two hallways he finds the waiting room where Roger and Freddie are already seated and talking in hushed voices. Brian had entered to the surgery room from another door, but they sit opposite a pair of grey doors where a nurse of doctor will later come out of to inform them of Brians status.

His stiff legs bend awkwardly when he sits down next to Freddie, who the minute he realizes it is John, throws himself at him. 

"Oh darling!" He exclaims with great sorrow. "Did he look nervous? Was he alright?"'

"He was fine." John gives up struggling almost immediately and makes eye contact with Roger over Freddie's shoulder. "He didn't like that I couldn't come in with him, but he calmed down."

"Poor dear. I'd be scared shitless if they'd cut me open."

"Me too." Roger agrees in a heartbeat. 

John closed his eyes to rid himself of the Roger emotions displayed in his deep blue eyes. He knows it's better to relax. There is nothing else they can do. Anything else &: a waste of energy. 

"Do you think they use the same instruments on other people?" Freddie asks suddenly.

Before John can utter how stupid that is, Roger answers, "They know how to disinfect in this place, don't worry too much about that."

Freddie relaxes his arms around John slightly with relief. 

Until Roger opens his mouth again.

"I'd worry about the instruments they sometimes accidentally leave inside their patients. Scissors and scalps and stuff."

"What?!" 

John can't say it is the most pleasant of topics, but while they are spluttering back and forth, nobody is expecting him to speak. The numb pressure that's weighing on his body keeps him small and unmoving in Freddie's arms, and when Freddie grows tired, he is handed over to Roger like a fussing baby. 

There's not any tears or wriggling like babies do. In fact, it's the exact opposite. Johns emotions have shut down and his body with it. 

He predicts that Freddie had explained this to Roger in the great psychological way he deserves for this behavior, because neither of them blink an eye at his mental absence or blink an eye at his ultimate silence.

Brian is getting a laparoscopic cholecystectomy. 

An easy procedure. Easier than the ones the same doctors do on a daily basis too. 

It will only take several small incisions that will heal up nicely. Either with a thread or medical staples. He can't remember if he had been told. 

The gallbladder is not even an essential organ on the right diet. 

So, there is nothing to worry about.

Brian will be fine. 

★☆★

"John? John c'm here." 

"I'm here." He sighs when another violent shiver causes Brian to squeeze his eyes shut in pain. John pries the blanket down to his waist so he can take a look at his bandages. "It's all fine." 

"I'm cold." 

John knows this, but he was also told by the doctor that someone had to be by Brians side for 24 hours and check on his dressings to make sure he isn't bleeding through or in any abnormal pain. He'd only vomited once, due to the 'strange aftertaste in his mouth', but not again. Excessive vomiting was another warning by the doctor, as well as yellow eyes, dark urine and a fever. 

"Is just gonna be cold for a second." John murmurs while he rolls up the edge of Brians sleepshirt. 

Hit with the cold Brians muscles tighten and it must hurts despite the prescribed ibuprofen. John is kneeled on the floor while Brian is laying on the couch. The bed was decidedly too crowded for him to be comfortable without the danger of the others accidentally touching and hurting him. 

He is fragile as it is, but aside from some bruising and swelling, luckily John detects no discharge or bleeding on or around the bandage on his healing stitches. 

Once satisfied he brings Brians shirt down and covers him under the blanket again from his socked feet to his chin. 

Brians eyes are tightly shut. It hasn't been more than six hours since they have come home, but the effects of the anesthesia have yet to fade completely. Besides the general shock of the pain and surgery, Brian has struggled with a sore throat and a dry mouth from the tubes stuck into him. 

"I love you." John says kindly after tucking Brian back in. 

He gets a tremor in return, in his current state Brian is caught more in his own world. John brushes a hair away from Brians shoulder, makes sure to smooth down the blankets and double check if Brian is properly positioned against the pillow under his neck. While he isn't even sure if Brian can tell what he is doing or if he will remember, it is for Johns own state of mind to ensure he did everything he could within his own power to ensure Brians comfort.

He sits down on his ass, legs crossed, in front of the couch. On the wall behind Brian is a clock. John will wake him every hour to check his bandage and his well-being. He also needs to keep Brian hydrated and get rid of the aftertaste in his mouth so he won't get sick for no reason and aggravate his wounds. 

Roger and Freddie have gone to their respective beds after Brian was cleared the same day of the operation to come home with them.

All had gone well, thank god. No complications or setbacks. 

Despite being considered perfectly fine if held to the hospital standard, Brian wasn't fine compared to his normal self. He's absent and hoarse with the aches his body went through. While John is certainly some of it is slightly exaggerated, Brian is suffering anyway. 

Something tells John this will be a long night. He exhales soundly and rubs his fingers up and down Brians covered arm. 

He feels the muscles relax underneath his palm at the same time as Brians forehead smoothens out. 

"It hurts." 

Brians sudden croaked voice brings John out of his own head. He sighs soundly and makes sure to squeeze Brians fingers even through the thick fabric of the blanket. "I know, but the doctor said you're recovering now and soon the pain will be gone."

"When?" He asks.

"When? Hm. Perhaps a day or two, they said you'll be up on your feet by the end of the week, so I am expecting that to be true."

He keeps his voice down in case Brian finds it within himself to fall asleep. 

Time passes faster and pain is subdued in sleep. 

"Two days." Brians eyes are moving behind the closed lids. "Two days."

"That might sound like a lot, but I have a sneaking suspicion you will be asleep for most of it. And every time you wake up, there will be someone to hold you and look after you." 

John finds the words rolling off his tongue with the same numb automatism as in the hospital.

He means what he says and says what he means, but the exhaustion that tugs on himself makes it hard to be deeply invested in the words he is saying. It doesn't matter, he thinks Brian can barely hear him, let alone analyze his tone and timing in great detail. 

If Freddie had been here he'd have a psychological field day. 

"You should try to sleep, I have to wake you up every now and then, make sure your wound is still healing neatly. Make sure you get some water."

"Can I have tea?" Brian asks softly. 

John smiles and shakes his head. "Water. Tomorrow we can move towards tea and fruits. Alright?"

"Since when are you the boss?" He mumbles sideways into his pillow. John doesn't believe Brian knows he said that out loud.

After crossing his arms on the edge of the couch and leaning his chin on top, he keeps his eyes fixed on Brian, sometimes shifting to the clock behind him, make sure Brian is okay with his closed eyes and sickly pale skin. So pale he blends in with the sheets over his blanket. John tries not to stare, not that there is nobody to judge him or tell him no. 

"Oh Bri," John snorts. "I've always been the boss."

★☆★  
 _  
The fragile edge of his mothers voice tells John that the situation is more serious than he initially thought._

_Her bottom lip trembles when she speaks and all color has drained from her pointed face._

_"T-they explained to me what went wrong. Something... Something with the surgery didn't seal right. There's been a lot of internal bleeding. They couldn't find it— they haven't found it in time to do something." Another tear joins her stained face. John clutches his sister against his side when he hears her sob, even though he doubts she knows what internal hemorrhage means. "There's nothing they can do now."_

_"What?"_

_There's no medical illusions to internal bleeding. John knows it isn't easy to find or treat, but they are inside the hospital. His father has been admitted here for hours. They operated on him. That should have helped him with his lungs. It should have saved him, it should have meant he was coming home with them. This makes no sense. Their trips to the hospital should have ended here. It should have meant they could go home and forget this was ever a part of their life. His father was supposed to come home permanently and they wouldn't have to come back to this forsaken place._

_John is boiling. The blood in his veins coils like lava through his body. The anger piles on with confusion and he tightens his grip on Julie without meaning to harm her._

_Did they kill his father with this mistake?_

_"How could they miss that?" He asks. "How could they not try anything? There must be something they can do, they are doctors! They have to give him a blood transfusion and operate again at any rate—"_

_"Honey, they tried. They said there was nothing else they could do."_

_His mother dries her face with the back of her hands. In this harsh lighting she ages with ten harsh years._

_John presses his mouth shut because he knows she wouldn't want him to keep pressing._

_But his mind keeps running and turning and spitting. This should have saved him. If the surgery had been successful it would have meant they could go home. Together. All four of them in their car with John and Julie in the back, mum and pap in the front._

_His mother leans forward to clasp his shoulder tight with her bony fingers and make him look at her through his cloud of emotions. Her words are sharp and taunting in their finality._

_"They said it's better not to waste more time."_

_His sister lets out another chest deep sob. She hides her face in his arm, but John can't get his eyes from his mother._

_"We have to say goodbye." He says at the same time as he realizes it._

_They have to say goodbye forever._

_Without another word, his mother nods. Yes, her crumbling face says. Yes, before she gives John and Julie a push in the back. Go to him._

_His knees nearly buckle on the way through the foor. He isn't crying, but he struggles keeping composure even for the small distance around his fathers bed. He has to drag Julie along with him and that's the mission he clings onto._

_Before he sees him he can tell he is breathing with much difficulty. The crackling of his lungs and the wheeze of his inhales cause Johns own breath to stutter. When he finally does see his father from his bedside, it is difficult to recognize the man who raised him underneath all the wires, tubes and the oxygen mask._

_Julie drops her head on the edge of the bed and cries against her fathers side._

_John is too mesmerized with the grey lifelessness of his skin to notice anything else. His father is sweating and struggling for his next breath through his parted lips._

_He can only stare dumbly while his father lifts his hand to rest it heavily on Julies head. The action only causes her to break down._

_"Don't go. Don't go papa." She begs into the bedding._

_While she falls apart against his side, he stays perfectly composed. He pets his palm over her hair, in a slow tired hypnotizing motion._

_John never admired anyone more in his life._

_"I won't go far. I won't go forever." He says bravely in a tone John wouldn't have recognized as his fathers. Tight and pained. He is in pain. His eyes fall onto John and behind the mask he quirks a half smile. The most he can manage in his current position._

_"You will have to look after your little sister."_

_"I will."_

_"Good." His father coughs, his eyes squeezed tight in the crackling sound. He recovers swiftly and goes on like nothing had happened in the first place. "Good. Johnny I couldn't have raised a better son."_

_"Are you really leaving?" John mutters despite himself. At least it gets him another lopsided smile from his father, who motions him over with the tilt of his chin._

_John dares to shuffle closer to the bed per request until he is standing next to Julie._

_His father is still soothing his fingers through her hair. John can't help but be envious and want the same._

_But he doesn't have to be. His father reaches across his own chest with his free arm to offer John his hand. He takes it and clutches it on his fathers breast. It might hurt a little, but at least he doesn't have to bend too much to hold them each at the same time._

_"You're allowed to cry Johnny. Just for a little bit, but when I'm gone you better pick yourself up."_

_"I will, Papa."_

_"You two make me proud. Keep making me proud." He adds pointedly. The exhaustion seeps into his features and John has seen people die in films, but never in real life. The heart monitor only quickens with the passing minutes. "I love you two."_

_"I love you papa. I love you." Julie says, red faced and scared._

_His father brushes her tear away. "Little girl."_

_John swallows around the lump in his throat. He is scared. Every fiber of his skin shivers in the cold of the white room._

_"Love you too." He says. He aches._

_His dad blinks heavily and John will never forget that look on his face, because moments later they will be send out of the room and it will be the last time he sees his fathers familiar loving face._

_"I know, son. I know."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH!!! What are we thinking? How are we doing? Let me know in the comments ❤️


	26. Of Jealousy and Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian is working through a thing or two...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg hello beauties, thank you for everyone still reading along and being so kind. Bless you all and have a good Sunday ❤️

There is nothing in the world Brian is more grateful for than Rogers return from the rehabilitation ward.

After spending weeks with a somber cloud hanging over their household, he makes for a radiant change in the previous quiet slumber. Brian had looked forward to having him return for weeks, therefore he doesn't understand why he can't just be grateful for having Roger around, instead of experiencing this awful nagging feeling of envy squeezing on his bleeding heart. 

"Lovies, we're back!" Freddie shouts from the hallway before he and Roger come shuffling into the living room. Shoes and coats already off. 

Brian and John are having their tea while quietly watching the BBC. 

Brian is still steadily recovering from his surgery and most of the exercise he gets is from walking up and down the hall to use the toilet. Someone is always at home with him just in case, but he is painfully aware that soon the constant company will be a privilege of the past.

"How did it go?" John turns around and asks. Brian also makes an effort to glance at them over his shoulder.

Roger is standing behind Freddie, hidden from view. Freddie is practically vibrating with excitement. "You won't believe what the doctor just did." 

"I think I can, considering Roger is blinder than a bat." 

"Hey!"

John grins and pushes himself up from the couch to face the surprise hiding behind Freddie. "Well, show me then." 

Roger jumps up from behind Freddie and spreads his arms wide with a grin.

"What you think Deacks?" He asks, pushing the large John Lennon-like glasses up the bridge of his nose. His eyes are enlarged behind the glass, making him unbelievably more adorable. 

John shakes his head, "You look very smart."

"See! I told you—" Freddie leans in and faux whispers at John, "He thought it wouldn't look nice."

"It certainly doesn't feel nice." Roger comments wryly, scratching the irritating skin under the spectacles. 

"We'll get him contacts as soon as the doctor clears him for those." Freddie continues, smiling widely and squishing Rogers cheeks between his hands. "Until then we can enjoy this little treat." 

Roger rolls his eyes and John joins in with the laughter. 

There is something about watching the three of them together that melts Brians heart to goo, but for the same reasons sets Brians teeth on edge. Roger is charming, beautiful and kind, he brings a lot to the table when it comes to their home. He lifts their spirits and cares for them. John and Freddie deserve someone like that in their lives, Brian is grateful to have him too. 

But having Roger around his partners is consequently also a threat. 

He recalls when John entered their relationship. How he brought on a new dynamic that was fresh and exciting, but there was also a side of Brian that worried about his position in the new relationship and mourned the relationship he used to have with Freddie. 

It all worked out in the end. He gained more than he lost, but to sail in unknown waters again is terrifying. 

"Bri! What do you think?" 

Brians forces himself out of his grim thoughts. He really shouldn't be worrying too much right now, his boyfriends would keep him in the loop with everything. 

_Even though John had kissed Roger without telling you and Freddie._

_You have kissed Roger without telling John and Freddie._

Rogers face falls. "Are you okay, Bri?"

"Yeah, yeah." He clears his throat and sits up straighter. "Just lost in my thoughts. I don't think it matters what you look like in glasses, as long as you can see, right?"

"Right..." Roger frowns. 

Sensing the energy suddenly basking around the room, Freddie tugs Roger by the wrist to the corner of the living room.

"Now, dear. I promised you to teach you the chords of Knock Three Times." 

"I can actually see the keys now." Roger laughs and plops down on the piano stool. Freddie scoots him over with a hip check to make room for himself. Roger allows his hands to hover the keyboard, Freddie first adjusts his posture— back, shoulders and elbows, before he shows Roger what keys to press at what time. Humming the song under his breath as he goes.

Roger watches Freddie play the song in wide eyed fascination. 

After playing it twice for Roger, Freddie suggests he should try now and Roger admits he hadn't been paying attention to his hands at all. And winks. 

"You little charmer, stop that and take my lesson seriously." Freddie scolds poorly with a wide grin plastered across his face. Roger says he is sorry, but doesn't really sound it. "Unbelievable." He scoffs and then presses a kiss to the corner of Rogers lips. "You're lucky your glasses keep you cute."

"I've always been cute." Roger smiles back. He rocks his shoulder against Freddie's. "Show me again, I'll pay attention to your hands this time."

"Amateur." Freddie sighs, before repeating the chords. 

The ease in which they move and talk tells Brian something is going on. More than they are openly letting on. If this is what they do right in the open, what will they be up to if they spend their days together in Freddie's tiny Kensington stall. Brian can't remember the last time he smiled like that with Freddie, but maybe that's because he is miserable from his surgery and medication. 

"You're making it very obvious." 

Brian jumps when Johns face is suddenly next to his. He is leaning against the back of the couch, they both face Roger and Freddie butchering Knock Three Times together on the piano, not caring that they do.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Brian murmurs without taking his eyes off the couple. 

Freddie fills in the third chord with which Roger struggles each time they repeat the chorus. When Roger nearly has the chorus nailed down they add off key singing to finish off their charming music session.

"Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me. Twice on the pipe if the answer is no!" Roger struggles between grinning at Freddie and paying enough attention to play the correct chords. Freddie is much more practiced and can hold tone, laugh with Roger and play one handedly all at once. A surge of admiration twinkles in Rogers enlarged eyes. On the next repeat of the chorus he sings a little louder. "Means you'll meet me in the hallway. Twice on the pipe means you ain't gonna show. If you look out your window tonight." 

Their energy is radiant and warm. Brian has the crushing suspicion his energy couldn't bs up to bar with them.

"You know they're just two enormous children and that there's nothing to worry about?" 

"I'm not worried." Brian tells John firmly.

The blatant lie is countered with a pitying scoff. "Oh Bri. You're making the exact pinched face you used to have when you first saw me bonding with Freddie individually." He smiles nostalgically and brushes Brians cheek with his thumb. Brian leans into the touch like a skin starved kitten. "I wasn't a threat waiting to chuck you out. Roger isn't either." 

One of the cats has made it on top of the piano and watches Roger and Freddie play with a cocked head. 

Roger leans over and kisses Oscars pink little nose, before sitting back down next to Freddie. He stretches out his arms and waits for Freddie to play the first note, but just before they start again, Roger reaches out his arm and points at Brian with a leisurely smile. 

"This one is for Bri!"

Freddie cheers and with their arms crisscrossing over the piano, they attempt another round at the song, which admittedly had been Brians favorite this month.

★☆★

Brian is woken up from his slumber by a disruptive thud coming from the hallway. 

It is followed by a pair of breathless giggles.

His first instinct is to roll his eyes and try to fall back asleep, but a small voice at the back of his head is raising alarm and pulling him out of his drowse. Brian sits up in bed and knuckles the sleep out of his eyes. It's late afternoon, he suspects from the approaching sunset outside his window. That means that he'll soon have to get up for dinner anyway. 

Now that he is awake he concentrates on the sounds that have dulled suspiciously. 

Initially he thought it was John coming home from the shops after work and Roger welcoming him home. 

But the sudden silence that isn't followed by the sound of the door leading into the living room opening of closing, arouses Brians suspicions even more. 

It sounded like something or someone had knocked against the wall. They were giggling.

Brian throws his legs off the bed and works his bare feet into his slippers while huddling in the cold to his bathrobe. While he dresses himself he listens carefully for any clue as to what Roger and John might be up to.

If Freddie or John saw him act like this they would be ashamed of him. Trust being the one working ingredient in their odd but loving relationship. 

Brian _does_ trust them, he tells himself while tying his robe tightly around his waist. 

But John had admitted to kissing Roger before. Long before the idea of Roger being a part of their relationship was even on the table. Brian shouldn't hold that over his head. John not only apologized, but Brian himself has kissed Roger in the hospital at the first given opportunity and he suspects Freddie has gotten his fair share too. 

But since Roger has come home Brian can't find peace with the thought of Roger is kissing his boyfriends, living in his house, liking them more than he likes Brian.

Them liking Roger more than they like him. 

Brian hates how these dark thoughts that creep up on him when things are left unspoken and for him to fill in.

_If they are doing this secretly, there is something wrong with it. Something else is going on._

With those words playing over in his mind and a crushing sense of insecurity on his heart, Brian pushes the door open not far enough to make a sound or draw attention to himself, but just to see what's happening in the hallway through a tiny slit.

What he sees and _hears_ shatters his heart into a billion little pieces.

Roger has John pressed against the wall opposite his own bedroom. Their lips are connected in a heated kiss and when they pull back to breathe, John tips Rogers chin back to trail sloppy kisses down the length of his neck. Roger makes beautiful small noises Brian has never heard him make before. He is trusting against John and allows him to pleasure him with soft touch of his lips and his hands gripping onto his hips. 

Brian has barely gotten Roger into trusting him to french kiss while in the hospital. He was hesitant and reluctant in most of his actions. Brian hadn't really minded, because that's how Roger _is_.

This is like he is watching a completely different person. 

It only confirms his creeping suspicion that he is falling behind on their relationship. They are making out and familiar and comfortable with each others bodies. Brian hasn't gotten close to touching Roger like that. He can't believe he always worried so much more about Freddie than John. He should have seen that he was the only one left behind.

Suddenly he is hurt. So deeply hurt that he can't stop the wave of tears burning behind his eyes.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Through the wall of wetness he can see Roger pull away with a startled jump. 

John still haz his hands around Rogers waist and Brian can only focus on that. On the simple comforting message behind the touch. Roger trusts John. John feels affection for Roger, something hard earned from the youngest. Brian really hadn't been paying attention. 

"Bri?" John says suddenly. His face falls. "What's wrong?"

Roger wipes the back of his mouth and otherwise stays completely frozen, while Brian opposite of him blinks rapidly and pushes the bedroom door further open with a stiff jerk. 

Their initial calm melts away with each passing second and worry sets in.

 _Good._ Brian scoffs. _If they want to get rid of him they should at least suffer through sending him away, rather than chasing him._

He bullies his way past them to the living room, but not without turning back to say, 

"When Freddie comes home, we need to talk." 

★☆★

Freddie came home to a house filled with suffocating tension. He'd come inside and found Brian and John sitting at opposite ends of the table. Roger had locked himself inside his room. Before someone could utter a word, Freddie had sighed. _Oh dear...._

"I don't think I should be here." Brian hears Roger say to Freddie in the hallway. "This seems pretty personal."

They enter the living room kitchen area. Roger is dragged around by the wrist. Freddie has his famously forced smile on his face. One he uses when the situation is dire but he refuses to buckle under it.

"No, dear, this regards you too." He says gently and plucks Rogers down in the chair closest to John. Something about the action sends a pang through Brians heart. 

Freddie runs his hands down both sides of his face. He is still standing and looks between all three of them. Brian isn't sure if he is contemplating how to start the conversation, read each of their expressions and moods, or decide whether to make them tea. 

Before he does say anything, Freddie maneuvers himself into the chair between Roger and Brian. 

He scoots away from the table so he can look at each of them without having to crane his neck.

But it is clear that Roger is the first target of their little session. Freddie's kind bur punctual eyes are trained on him when he asks the simple but dreaded question. 

"Do you want to be with us?"

"Maybe." Roger says. He looks nervous and underneath the table he is fiddling with his fingers. The most telling are his wide fearful eyes behind the glasses. "What if I say yes and it doesn't work out?"

"If it doesn't work out we can go back to how things were before. Without the kissing or the romance— and don't give me that face. We are grownups! If the relationship isn't what we had hoped, the friendship we have built will outlast it." Freddie says with a smile too delightful and a tone too easy. It _can't_ be that easy. 

Roger is having a similar train of thought because his uncomfortable pinched expression doesn't change, in fact it grows with an edge of doubtfulness. 

They can't blame him for being doubtful. Why would he put everything at risk for officially being with all three of them if it means possibly losing literally everything he has. From his basic necessities, a job, to a roof over his head and the clothes on his back. 

Besides, it would mean entertaining a relationship with all three of them. 

That includes Brian. 

"But," John clears his throat. They all turn to him. "If you, Roger, like us I don't see why we can't at least try this. We already treat you as the fourth person in our relationship, I think this is just a formality to make clear how we all feel about this and to confirm if we are all on the same page." He finishes with a curt nod. 

Freddie seems in agreement. Brian, with a strictly neutral face, studies Rogers reaction, which is not just lukewarm or hesitant, but an expression close to a unpromising grimace. 

"I don't want to ruin what we have. Or disrupt anything for that matter." 

He carefully avoids Brians eyes. 

Brian _had_ lashed out seeing him with John. He realizes, suddenly, that he shouldn't have. 

Maybe he has wrongfully given Roger the impression Brian is the one who doesn't want to be with him. It couldn't be further from the truth, but it still hurts thinking he has given Roger the impression and confirming that by his reaction just now in the hallway when he found John and Roger together. 

That is the problem with blurred lines and miscommunication. 

Brian clears his throat and takes his turn to speak directly at Roger. 

"Do you like us?" He asks. "Like, like us?" 

"Yes I do. I like all three of you, equally." Roger adds. He still has to meet Brians eyes, but at least the sheer panic has gone somewhat.

"Freddie is right. If it doesn't work out between us we won't kick you to the curb. This is your home too. No matter what. We won't hold anything over your head." Brian says calmly. He doesn't need the nod of approval Freddie gives him, but it tugs on his heartstrings nonetheless. 

"I don't pay rent. My name isn't on the lease. My clothes aren't bought with my own money. I don't pay for my utilities. Almost everything I have and need doesn't belong to me." Roger counts on his fingers. "I depend too much on you to not constantly worry about misstepping in the relationship." 

"We can draw up a contract that says we can't kick you out." John says. "We can even write down everything that we have gifted to you so it legally belongs to you. And when you start working with Fred, you can pay part of the rent with us. We'll hook you up on the lease with the landlord as soon as your paychecks start coming." He sits closest to Roger and can take Rogers hand in his under the table. "There wil he missteps in the relationship. There will be fights and mistakes. But your things will be your own. We wouldn't be able to kick you out by holding the relationship over your head, that's a lawsuit waiting for us to lose. We won't make your life harder for being with us. We— we want you." 

"Everyone should be on board." Roger says. "Brian isn't."

Their eyes finally do meet across the table. Rogers are narrowed and full of hurt that Brian unintentionally put there. He knows he is being watched like a hawk by the two others, even if his focus is solely on Roger. 

"I wanted you back and with us more than anything while you were away." 

Roger stays quiet.

Brian lowers his eyes. If they want this to continue, all four of them, he needs to come out with it. All of it. "Seeing you sneak around with John made me worry that there was something going on I wasn't told."

"Like what?" Roger asks. 

"Like... I don't know. That maybe the three of you were together." He huffs. "Without me." 

"There has never been a three of us, Bri. Only Roger and I. Or Freddie and Roger. We didn't— we did not pursue a relationship without you." John hurriedly explains. "We would never do that to you."

"I didn't know this, because we weren't talking. All I see is you sneaking around and whispering and holding hands."

"We were not sneaking around." John insists in a teeth gritting tight voice. He is pulling in the arm that's attached to Roger. Making Roger sway back and forth. 

Their constant closeness isn't something Brian imagined. "What do you call it then?"

"I had told you I'd kissed him."

"We have all kissed Roger!" Brian exclaims. "That doesn't mean we are having lewd make out sessions in the hallway when you think I'm asleep."

"You found out, because we weren't trying to keep it a secret. Hence the 'not sneaking' part." 

John hushed when suddenly Freddie speaks up, one finger lifted up in the air hesitantly. He looks between John and Brian.

"I have never shared a kiss with Roger." 

"I'm sorry." Roger says to Freddie, calmer than he has been this whole conversation. He lets go of Johns hand to wrap both his hands around Freddie's on top of the table. His eyes are sincere and blue. Freddie gives him a tired smile in exchange. 

"Don't be darling, in it's own time. Yeah?" He winks. 

Roger swallows. "Yeah."

Freddie leans forward to kiss the top of Rogers hands. Brian can't quite believe they have never kissed. The intimacy between them goes far beyond that of a peck on the lips. 

He is entranced by the sight of them. That is, until Freddie raises his voice at him. 

"Brian, darling. We are not replacing or forgetting you in this new step. We are not moving on without you. This is the first time we have openly discussed Roger joining our relationship. Roger is not like John when he first joined us, if I can be frank." Freddie asks Roger. Roger nods. 

"Roger has come out of an abusive relationship and it cannot be expected that his individual relationships with us develop evenly, because we are three different individuals. Roger and John never meant to hide anything and they shouldn't have to, because we have all felt a shift between us that's moved past a platonic relationship. I blame neither John, Roger or you for that matter. Is that settled?" 

"Yes." Brian says and means it. 

He takes a freeing breath that sets the tightness around his heart free. By God, the sudden relief sends tears to his eyes and down his cheeks. 

"Good." Freddie gives him a loving smile that's only meant for him and nobody else. Then he turns to the other two again. "And Roger? We will set up a document that gives you legal ownership of the things we have gifted you and that you are a tenant of this house and cannot be evicted for not having romantic relations with the other tenants. We would never want to pressure you into anything. Were those your only concerns about joining our relationship officially?"

"Yes." Roger admits with pink cheeks. 

"Would you like to join us?" Brian asks. "It might not seem like it, but, being with the three of you would make me the happiest man alive."

"Are you sure it's okay?" Roger asks again. This time with a raised eyebrow.

If Brian had nodded any faster his head might have bopped off. "Yes. I— my insecurities come into play when I'm uncertain where things stand. I thought by not kissing you much and having you like John, you didn't like me as much. Or how you laugh and play with Freddie. Maybe it's stupid, but I wish I had that, because I want nothing more than to be a part of that too." 

"Please. Darling don't you see we want nothing but _you_." Freddie whispers, hands tightly held between Rogers.

It takes a beat. A long beat that Brian will never forget. 

"Yeah." Roger snorts and rapidly has to blink to keep the tears away. "Goddamn stop begging you guys. I'll do it." 

His chuckles are drowned out by Freddie's cheer. Suddenly Roger is pulled into a hug by John and then, after Freddie prompts Brian out of his chair to join them, wraps his arms around both John and Roger.

Brian watches them just for a moment. To see if it makes sense. If it fits. 

Roger is a blubbering mess of laughter and tears. His face is half shoved into Johns shirt, while John has his arms around Roger to keep him close. Freddie is an octopus around the two of them, passing forehead kisses between them like the loving man he is. Brian watches them with such fondness. It is right. It fits. 

John tilts up his head and they make eye contact. He tips his chin up. "Come on Bri."

"Yeah, alright." He sniffles without meaning to and plasters himself against Rogers back. 

★☆★

"I love you Bri."

"I love you too."

"You're so perfect. So good for me." Freddie says in a soft quiet tone directly into Brians ear so that nobody but him could hear the uttered truth of the words. "You're mine. You'll always be mine."

"Thank you."

Brian buries his reddening face in the pillows to hide how embarrassingly turned on the praise gets him. 

It is a lost cause, Freddie is chuckling breathily feeling Brians cock pulse in his palm. 

He makes sure to stay quiet. With John snoring heartedly next to them on the bed they couldn't be more careful. Freddie is pressed up against Brians back, jerking him off fast and dirty while fondling his balls. The slick of Freddie's saliva helps ease the way. 

They both hadn't been able to sleep. Not after that conversation. It reminds Brian of the night they talked to John and invited him and John had taken the evening to think it over.

That night Freddie had taken Brian apart by laying kisses over every single nook of his body. Not missing a single inch. 

Freddie had been gentle and passionate. Reminding Brian of everything they were.

Tonight they can't quite do that. If Brian recalls it correctly he has screamed through that night. Today they have to be extra careful if they want to finish this secretly. 

Freddie is great at finishing Brian fast. He knows just how fast to stroke and where to press his thumb to make Brians toes curl. 

He muffles his moans in the pillow. Freddie shushes him and praises him. Nothing could make him harder. 

"You love it when I touch you. You love that I can touch you better than you can touch yourself." Freddie grins straight into his ear. "You're my naughty needy thing. I'll always take care of you and keep you where you belong."

Something in Freddie's tone makes Brian impossibly harder.

A beat of precum trickles from his head nearly onto the bed. Freddie catches the droplet and spreads it over Brians sensitive slit. 

He gasps and moans. Tingling sensations of want and satisfaction all meet while Freddie plays him like a fiddle. 

Whatever it is that makes Freddie so good, Brian can't complain. 

His cock can't possibly be harder and he feels such an urge to blow his load that he starts rocking his hips into Freddie's hand. He can close his eyes and imagine it's the tightness of someones ass, but the knowledge that it is Freddie pleasuring him to climax id enough.

"Freddie..."

"I know, that's nice isn't it. Bet you're anxious to cum all over my hand and the bed. I bet you want to be dirty for a little but, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I love you Bri. I love you so much." He tightens his grip and moves up and down faster, which Brian didn't know was possible. Sped up like this, there is no way Brian will last. 

Brian keens. The warmth of his approaching orgasm starts as a energy bundle in his stomach and spreads like a tingling sensation to his limbs, leaving a pleasure filled feeling. 

"I'm close." 

"Good. Who was it that got you there?" Freddie asks. From the steadiness of his voice one couldn't possibly tell he was giving Brian a handjob, 

Brians eyes flutter closed. "You. You, Fred."

"Me, that is. Me. And I love you Bri, tell me who loves you?"

It is too much to hold back. The pleasure bursts free behind his lids and stars erupt over his black vision. Brian is pushed over the edge, his cum shoots out in thick ropes with Freddie's name on his lips.

"Freddie." He moans lost in the pleasure that Freddie rides out for him. "Freddie, Freddie, Freddie." 

His boyfriend stays plastered against his back until every droplet of cum has been stroked out of him and his cock begins to shrink in Freddie's relaxing hand.

When his lips stay parted on an unfinished moaning gasp for air, Freddie peppers the back of his neck with kisses.

"I love you. I love you and I always will. Don't you ever forget."

"I won't." Brian grumbles now suddenly sleep riddled. He notices Freddie tugging his back into his boxers before adjusting the blankets over his shoulder again. But Freddie doesn't turn away. He stays still against Brians heaving back. He lets his lips drag over Brians neck in a lazy motion that lulls Brian right to sleep. "I know. Love you." 

"I love you too. You idiot." Freddie murmurs fondly. 

★☆★  
 _  
"How was that?" Roger asks, hands clasped together on his chest._

_"Really really beautiful, darling." She praises kindly. His cheeks are still red from the extrusion and he is panting, trying to breathe. "You're getting better every day."_

_"I know." He says, with a cheeky grin that reminds Winnifred too much of his father._

_She cups his cheeks and gives him an adoring squeeze. "Such a little rascal. Such a beautiful voice."_

_"Can I have some ice cream now mummy. You said I could have some ice cream if I sang it without any mistakes."_

_"Was that without any mistakes?"_

_Winnifred turns to Michael, who is supposed too engrossed with his book to listen to Rogers practicing. She wraps her arms around her little boy and gives him a kiss on the forehead. "Oh come on, Mike. It was wonderful."_

_"Was it?" He asks, a smirk tugging on the corner of his mouth. "I'm not sure yet."_

_She rolls her eyes at him, before turning Roger around. "Sweetheart maybe you can show daddy how good you have become. You're ready for tomorrow, aren't you?"_

_"Yes I am!" Roger says._

_He is jittery with adrenaline, but he is the least nervous for his audition out of all three of them._

_The scouts had heard him sing a few weeks ago on Sunday where he sings in the choir. Winnifred and Michael were approached by a young man who offered Roger an audition at the Truro Grammar and Cathedral School, which could mean a free ride on a scholarship._

_Winnifred had tried preparing him as much as possible without taking all the fun out of it. As far as Roger knows, he's just going to sing for a kind group of people._

_Michael had preferred the more direct approach and wanted to explain the situation to their son._

_Even though diamonds are made under pressure, Winnifred didn't want to make Roger nervous and mess up the audition that way. If they want him to go to a good school, this has to work. She knows how to make him work._

_"Can you show daddy how good you've become?" Winnifred asks. When Roger makes a face at having to sing again, she pokes her fingers in his sides to make him giggle. "We will get you some ice cream afterwards."_

_Roger seems to think about it. The little hellion._

_He hangs off her shoulders and huffs. Groans. Winnifred reminds herself practicing for a whole hour is a lot for a young boy._

_"Is daddy coming too?"_

_"Of course daddy is coming, baby. You did so well today, didn't he daddy?" Winnifred grins up at Michael._

_Michael sighs and gives up. He closes his book and settles it on the side, before patting his knee. "Okay, bud. Come here and let me hear it."_

_Rogers eyes lit up and he skips off to Michael and jumps into his arms._

_Michael catches him with an oof and perches him on his lap, one hand on Rogers back and the other on his knee to steady him. Winnifred gets up from her crouch and leans against the back of the couch to watch her men together with a broad smile on her face._

_Roger takes a deep breath to fill his lungs and straightens his back before he starts to sing._

_"All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The lord god made them all."_

_Winnifred meets Michaels gaze across the room. She winks and Michael rubs Rogers shoulder, making him smile brightly while he continues on the perfect pitch of the song. Their little angel._

_She clutches her chest._

_"The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden, He made them every one."_

_"Amen." Michael murmurs. Roger shushes him before his next line. Winnifred muffles her laughter behind her hand._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you’re thinking!!! 
> 
> Next chapter I got a little surprise for you guys ;)


	27. Of Exposure and Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard has been slipping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all of this chapter is gonna matter in the future dkfkfkdks

It was only a matter of time before the news would reach Richards boss.

He hears the humming of the motor before he hears the knock on the door. His heart doesn't jump, but Roy, his right hand man, sends him a panicked look. 

"Answer it." 

Roy straightens his shoulders and leaves the room to open the front door for the men waiting on the other side. Richard knows they are a pair of Gillians minions. When they muscle their way into the apartment and Richards bedroom, their appearance is just about what one would expect from two mutant guard dogs. 

Richard doesn't get up. Doesn't acknowledge their threatening presence other than a murmured, "Gentlemen."

"Gillian has send for you." 

Unsurprisingly. Richard keeps his face tight and neutral. Behind the guard men Roy tries to pass them through the doorway, but there is no way he can move their bulks to the side. Not the best right hand man, but Richard can't blame him even if that would be easy.

"So he's sent you to drag me there?"

"By force if necessary." The minion adds in a low threatening voice. 

Richard sighs. 

The whole charade is humiliating. He knows his whores in the living room can hear the conversation. They know he has failed to find Roger. His boss knows he has failed to find him and made a shitshow of it doing so. He nearly messed up on one of their dealing hotshots. He endangered the crew. 

This was long overdue anyway. Richard is surprised he hasn't been hauled to Gillians office three weeks ago. 

"We are leaving now." The first minion adds when Richard still hasn't moved from the bed.

Knowing his options are limited, Richard gathers his pack of cigarettes and lighter before he follows the men out the door. Roy stands next to him and tries to appear taller, but compared to the men accompanying them down the stairs to their large black car, he seems to have shrunken. The driver is waiting for them with the engine on. 

One minion gets in the passengers seat. Minion two sits down between Roy and Richard. Arms crossed. Belt unbuckled. 

Roy normally always buckles his seatbelt. Today he doesn't and fitfully stares at the back of the passengers seat. Roy hasn't seen much of Gillian, but whenever he does, he's seen blood and ripped flesh. 

Richard has a different relationship to Gillian. 

He is ultimately still the higher boss. The highest of them all, but he is also the man who taught Richard everything he knows. Who gave him responsibility, power, money and slowly allowed him to watch over branches of the gang. 

After all these years of good work, Richard dares to think his brains won't end up blown out on the floor of Gillians basement. 

He'll get a talking to. A warning. Maybe some of his privilege will be taken away.

But Richard tells himself that he won't die today. 

It is a long drive to Gillians place and when they arrive, it's almost sunrise. The minions get him out of the car by force. Roy watches them handling Richard with a twisted anger. Richard can proudly say he trained a good lapdog in Roy. Loyal to the core.

The four of them walk up to the warehouse while the car goes around to the garage. 

Minion two uses his keys to open the heavy industrial door. He slips inside to announce they have arrived before the other three are allowed to follow.

Richard goes in second. 

Gillian lair is nothing short of a Hollywood movie dream for a maffia boss. 

The exterior is orange brick and decayed with age. A factory once occupied in the late 1800s. It has a large basement and three levels. The first is kept unsuspicious and decayed and empty like the exterior. The basement is for business. At the top floor, Gillian lives his luxury life in a fine well designed penthouse. 

Richard knows he is in fact in trouble when he is brought down to the basement. Roy fidgets against him. Richard sends him a calm icy look.

_He isn't going to do anything. We're fine. It's just to make a statement._

The minion opens the door that leads down a flight of concrete steps. The light isn't easy to find. If someone doesn't come equipped with the knowledge or a flashlight, it isn't possible to find the switch or get downstairs. 

This place isn't where they store their drugs. They have different warehouses for that, mostly managed by Alan and his direct workers.

Here they store papers. Archives. Things necessary to keep administration running. 

And on occasion, someone gets killed here.

Once down the steps, the second minion uses the lever to open the final door into the basement. 

Richard knows the layout of the room by heart. The many file cabinets with endless papers about their suppliers, dealers, business, profit, employees, profiles of politicians and celebrities still hold the same place as when Richard began. They keep their information close to the source, which is Gillian, but it doesn't make the room any less fragile. 

The walls are a sad color of grey. Richard enters and finds Gillian already there. Waiting with a cigar between his lips. Nobody else was allowed to smoke around the files, only him.

Only a single bulb hangs off the ceiling, illuminating the rest of the room. 

Richard watches it dangle in morbid fascination. So that he doesn't have to look at Gillian or at his feet like a child called to his parents for a scolding. Roy is standing right behind him while the two minion guards stand by the door to keep guard. 

The bulb casts odd shadows across the room. In this light, Gillians silhouette is the shadow of a giant. And Richard is a dwarf. 

His cigar smoke filters through Richards nose. He tries not to flare his nostrils at the familiar scent. 

"Explain yourself." 

"It was Alans plan." Richard says a tad too fast. He squeezes his eyes shut before he reopens them and looks straight at Gillian. "He gave me the information and fed me the plan." 

"Are your actions his responsibility?" 

_No_. Richard thinks. "It was by his recommendation that I acted." He gulps. 

"There was no gain. _No gain_ for breaking into that hospital. There is no justification for exposing us that way."

Alan puts his foot down. Literally. The room echoes from the loud stomp. 

Richard prides himself for not flinching. "We aimed to make it seem like a breakout by the patient. It wasn't supposed to look like a robbery or vandalism. We had the wrong room number, but I was close to having him back." He says wryly. "I was close." 

"You put us all at risk. All of us." Gillian roars. Finger pointed at Richard. "You exposed us not just to the police, but to rival gangs. To anyone who is watching we appear weak. _I_ appeared weak because of your shortcomings. Richard you are in luck that you have built up a near empire in your time here. Otherwise you would have been out." 

There is no out, Richard reminds himself. There is the Bull Crew, or there is death.

Gillian watches him with a pulled expression. Pinched with disgust. Richard has let him down after years of making him proud. After years of being an asset to the crew, Richard needs the big man to clean up his mess. 

"You send out a reward for Roger." Gillian decides in a calmer voice. "Alive or dead, we must know where he. He knows too much. I am doubting your competence, Richard. He got into your head. He controlled _you_. Now he is gone, with all the information he has about the crew in that tiny little head of his. This is a dangerous world, Richard. One leak of information in the wrong ear can cause the end of a branch. You know that, right?"

"I do."

"Get your fucking head straight. I catch you out of control one more time and you're a dead man. Bring that Roger back. He needs to be put down." 

Richard heart skips a beat. He opens his mouth and waits for Gillian to finish talking. The boss stops as soon as he sees Richard hesitate. The disapproval returns to his face, like Richard just proved him his point.

Still. Richard has to ask.

"Will you kill him?"

"Is that what it takes to silence him?" Gillian asks, puffing around his cigar. "Do you know a more sufficient way to? Oh I forgot, you feel affection towards this tool. You may keep him chained in your bedroom for all I care. Cut out his tongue and remove his hands. I _don't_ care. But nobody can know what he knows. I want insurance for that." 

Richard isn't sure what exactly Gillian is so afraid of. Roger knows things, like their faces, some locations and the prostitute side of business, but that doesn't mean he'd know enough to make a believable case. It doesn't even mean Roger would go to the police it all, it would mean incriminating himself too. He was there and actively committed the same crimes he would accuse the Crew of. Richard doubts Roger would ever risk prison time. 

But Richard has no grounds to protest against his boss, not now. "Sir."

"And don't fuck up, Richard." He points his finger into Richards face. His eyes are blank and emotionless, the only indication of his mood is the degrading smirk on his lips. "It would be such a fucking waste." 

★☆★

The very same day, Richard sets up a reward for Roger. He scurries around finding the one picture he still has of him. It is an old one, just over three years ago, Richard had let his eyes rake over the image for a long time. He imagined in that moment the warmth of his body against his own and the scent of something that is completely Roger. 

Eventually Roy interrupted him from his daydreaming. There to collect the pictures of Roger for the wanted flier they wanted to make. He copies a bunch of them. With Rogers picture and Richards house phone number, in case anyone finds him. 

They list a reward. A hefty one of 150 pounds, dead or alive. For any information concerning him, 10 pounds or less. Depending on the tip. 

The money had come from Gillian. Richard hopes it's enough to keep people's eyes open.

"We can't hang them around the streets in London. Roger can't know he is being searched. His possible captors can't know either. We will give folders to our dealers and prostitutes. Instruct them not to hand the folders out, but show their clients the photo and reward. We can't have these fliers lying around. Understood?"

Roy nods. Handling the photo of Roger and first copy of the flier with care. "Yes sir." 

"If these stay in our circles, the police won't find out and neither will anyone not concerning this information. Roger needs to be found. If we show this to enough junkies and perverts, one is bound to spot Roger." 

"I hope so, sir. I'm certain." 

All leads have dried up. Surveillance around the drugs ward has led to nothing. Andrei hasn't seen anyone of the Freddie Mercury household with Roger during his time inspecting their residence, even though he was the one who had written Roger into the ward. They wanted to check on that lead again, but by that time Freddie Mercury no longer lived in the old woman's house and disappeared without a trace. 

Not at the hospital. Not with Mercury. Nit at any local shelter. 

Roger seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. 

Richard clenches his jaw and looks up at Roy. "This needs to work. He has no control over me. He has no right. We need to set this straight or Gillian will have my head." 

Roy nods. "Yes sir."

"Come back with the fliers before the ladies leave tonight." Richard orders while Roy makes his way out the door. "I want them on the search asking their clients for leads _tonight_."

"Very clear, sir." Roy nods. His face set with determination.

Richard hums, waving him off while he locks himself back inti his room. Away from the stench and murmured complaints in the living room. He can't stand them. 

Richard sits in the bed with his elbows on his knees. He closes his eyes and rubs over them with his palms. He hates it, but he needs Roger back. He is pent up with frustration, with anger and paranoia. He wants to break, rip and clench. He feels savage and his blood coils under his skin.

This is the last plan he has to find Roger. This needs to work. 

Or it will be the end of Richard.

★☆★

A week goes by and then another. The leads are dryer than ever when Larry lands in the hospital because his remaining eye caught a nasty infection.

While his men and even Richard fondly make fun of Larry's pirate appearance, he is a hard worker and cannot be missed permanently if they want to keep profits up. One of the most important tasks at hand was surveillance of the hospital and drug addiction ward. 

Larry already had a number of clients at the hospital. It is a hotspot for business. He knew the place and he would know exactly what Roger looks like were he to spot him. 

But after weeks of pointless surveillance, Larry lands in the hospital and Richard, despite Roys advice against it, decides to go to the ward. 

"There are three lunch packages. The first is coke, second is smack and the third is also coke." Roy hands him the plastic bag from the backseat. "If someone causes trouble, Larry threatens to cut them off completely and then ups his price by 40% if they beg him to stay anyway. He would like you to keep the same consequences, in case they think they can mess with you. His words, not mine."

"Sounds good." Richard murmurs.

He looks at himself in the rearview mirror and sees nothing but a middle aged man aging too fast. He can't remember the last time he slept through the night. The dark rings under his eyes are witness to that. 

He hopes nobody recognizes him. The only people who had seen him were the dark haired woman in her pencil skirt and an old receptionist.

Larry does his business through the public hospital. Richard doubts staff from the ward would come there on a regular basis. 

He unbuckles his seatbelt and checks his coat to make sure he has some money and the folder on him to ask the clients about Roger. Roy is looking at him while he gets ready to leave.

"Don't give me that look." Richard murmurs. "Larry is out for at least a week. This place reeks of leads and he got nothing." 

"Maybe Alan was wrong all along. It wasn't your Roger."

"It was my Roger. Imogen describes this Freddie Mercury figure, who is responsible for writing Roger into rehab. I come here to check if Roger is really our Roger, and they give me the perfect description of him. The room number was wrong. That is all. If I have the right room number or Freddie Mercury's new address, I can find him. He has Roger. Or Roger is still here." 

Roy swallows thickly. His head is straining not to shake in disapproval. "Maybe Imogen lied."

"She is too scared. It would be too much of a coincidence." Richard opens the car door and gets out. "He was there, or he still is. Someone is going to talk." 

He doesn't let Roy have another word in before he closes the door.

Roy turns off the engine and stays put, while Richard and his drugs enter the hospital through the main entrance.

Larry had given a description of the three locations he had set to meet the clients.

The first one is on the second floor. Tucked in a corner behind a half finished wall. Richard isn't sure what the purpose was of the architectural design, but it makes for a good place to sit in a bolted down chair and wait behind without anyone noticing unless they come rounding the corner themselves.

Less than three minutes later, according to Richards watch, a young woman in grey sweats comes shivering into the seat next to him. She doesn't seem to care he isn't Larry. He knows for a fact that he is a better sight than the other man. 

She is frail and thin. Richard thinks she can use the actual lunch as much as the coke in it. 

"How much?"

Richard rattles off the price Larry had instructed him. 

While he pockets his money and she cradles her drugs ready to get up, Richard clears his throat.

She pauses. "Yeah?"

He motions for her to come back and look at something. From his pocket he unfolds the flier with Rogers picture on it.

"Have you seen this man?" 

Her eyes widen at the listed price underneath. "Do I get some money if I tell you something?"

"Only if it's new information." 

She glances around herself, before she ducks in and whispers, "His room was broken into, several weeks ago. Most people stay here for months, but since that happened they sped up the process to let him go."

"So he is gone now?"

"Yes." She says. "I have never seen anyone leave as fast as he did."

"Where did he go?”

Richard knows he is pushing his luck. She shrugs. "I dunno. I'm not his friend or anything. I wasn't even in his therapy group." 

She rocks on her heels. Fingers gripping her lunch. 

"How much do I get?"

Richard isn't sure how much that is worth. At least he knows now that Roger isn't here and that they let him leave because of the break in. The break in that was indeed in the correct room. That's bad news. The attempted kidnapping was taken seriously by the staff and Roger was let go. Likely, with Freddie Mercury. Who is lost without a trace. 

"You get a pound." He says, reaching into his wallet to give her the money Gillian had given him.

She frowns. "The flier said ten pounds."

"Up to ten pounds, it said." He puts the coins in her palm and gets up on his feet to tower over her. She gets the message. "If you ever find out something relevant to Roger, you let me or Larry know. We can properly reward you for proper news."

"Fine." She says. 

In a flurry she leaves off in the direction of the stairs where she had come from. 

Richard watches her go and only moves on to the next client when she is out of sight and no nurses are occupying the hallway. 

For the next client he stays on the same floor but on the other side of the building. This makes for a short walk where Richard tries not to stand out in between normal people and families in mourning. He hadn't bothered to check what unit he is on, but the stench of death is unmistakable. 

People are crying, huddled together. 

He understands why this is a good spot to meet. Nobody is paying attention to him. 

He sits down on the bench the furthest to the wall. Before he has properly settled in, an elderly man in a grey shirt sits down beside him. 

His eyes are sunken with age and a lifetime of substance abuse. He ages terribly. So terribly that Richard fears that he is looking into a mirror of his own reflection. 

"Do you have my lunch?" The man asks in the improperly long silence. 

Richard nods. The man is already holding out his money in the palm of his hand. Richard scrapes it off and into his own pocket. 

He gives the man his heroin. Something tells Richard that this might be the mans last hit of his life. Richard used to be a drug dealer on the regular basis, on the streets, in the field. He'a forgotten what types of miserable fucks buy their goods. He would almost feel bad for them, if it wasn't so important to the business. To Gillian. 

"Will Larry be back?" The man asks suddenly.

Richard gets up and dusts his trousers off. He doesn't need to stay in this unit with this dying man for one second longer.

"What's it to you?" He asks. Not waiting for a response. Not showing Rogers picture. 

An irk settles in his shoulders and Richard walks out of the damned hallway smelling of rotten corpses and the insides of human bodies. He shakes his head to get rid of the scent. He used to think he was cut out for this, but with age he has fallen out of contact with the working force. 

Those thoughts should not be wandering around his head if he needs to stay focused. If he doesn't want to end up at the bottom of the gangs hierarchy, he needs to step up and do his work with the same focus and precision as before. 

His final appointment will in the hospital is on the third floor, one floor up. 

It is a quiet floor without anyone walking around. The doors to the rooms are all closed and none of the chairs are occupied, except for one where a man with a grey t-shirt and baggy sweats is sitting in a corner, arms crossed and pale face set in a tense frown. 

When he sees Richard approach him, he tenses up further and he tilts his head in surprise, causing the fluorescent light to catch the balding patch on his head. 

"You are not Larry." The man comments dryly when Richard sits down beside him.

He doesn't sound particularly unfriendly, or interested. Just distrustful. 

Anyone who takes drugs while being in rehab should be distrustful at least a little bit. Richard holds out the lunch package to the man sitting right beside him. 

"No, not Larry, I'm Richard." He says, giving him the plastic pack. "Drugs is drugs, isn't it?"

If the man was tense before, he has grown positively rigid now. 

There is a blank glaze of anger over his eyes. Suddenly Richard contemplates if he could handle this man in a fight. Something that he used to always prepare himself for when he worked the field. Now he is caught off guard and the man is sizzling with boiling blood, his face is red with it. 

Richard doesn't wonder why. There are plenty of mentally ill who are addicts. The kinda of people that are set off completely when one detail is out of order. 

"I promise you, Larry'll be back in a couple of weeks. Got a thing with his working eye." Richard drawls.

He reaches into his pocket and holds out the flier for Roger.

"Got something to cheer you up. You ever seen this man?" Richard asks, pointing at Roger.

The man sitting beside him stops shaking. Suddenly he is very still. He glances away from the picture of Roger to stare blankly at Richard. "What's this for?" 

"This is Roger. An acquaintance of mine." 

The man snatches the flier from Richard and holds it close to his face to read the smaller lettering. Richard lets him. He doesn't think he should upset this man. He seems to go off at any second and the wrong movement could form the trigger for an attack. 

"Roger was here for a short while," Richard continues while the mans eyes rapidly go back and forth across the page. "And as far as I know, he is gone now, I heard he got an early release because of a nasty incident. But I don't know where he's gone. If you have any information I can reward you. Those packages you are getting aren't cheap." 

He realizes suddenly that the man hasn't even paid for his drugs yet, but watching him crumble the flier between his fingers, tells Richard not to push his buttons now.

The man turns to Richard and with the same blank stare hands back the flier.

"I know who he is." 

"Roger?" Richard asks. Doubtful.

"Yeah." The man leans back in the chair and seems to force himself to relax. Richard doesn't. He stays alert. "He used to stay at the ward. We were in the same support group." 

Of all the idiots in the hospital, of course Roger had to have gotten in contact with this muscles creep. 

It doesn't surprise Richard. He has to hide his disgust.

"How much can you tell me?" He asks trying not to sound to eager.

"I want the full 10 pounds." 

"What's your name?" Richard asks first. Eyes hard. 

The man raises his eyebrows, bur stays relaxed. "I'm Chris. People call me Crystal."

"Right. And I suppose you knew Roger?"

"Knew him well enough to give you some information about his whereabouts." 

Richard pauses. "How would you know?"

"I asked." Crystal shrugs. "I asked because we were friends until they transferred him."

"Transferred?"

"Yes. Some people he didn't want on his back had found him. His room was broken into and they decided to transfer him to another facility. From what I've heard, somewhere up north." 

"What does that mean?" Richard asks. "What place is he?" 

"You see, _Richard_. You are asking me to betray a fellow patient, who had to transfer rehab wards, because I think it was you who terrified him into leaving. Am I correct?" Richard doesn't reply. That settles it. "I thought so. So, I want to see my money before I can rake my mind for the exact city they send him off to. I think you'd understand that?"

Richard has never grasped for his wallet as fast as he does now. He scrambles for the coins and when he has them, he presses them one by one in the palm of Crystals hand.

Crystal watches him with a cold glare. He counts the money he receives and he waits for Crystal to round up the full ten pounds.

"That's it. That's all I have on me now." Richard lies and closes his wallet. "Tell me. You got your money, you must tell me."

Crystal takes his time pocketing his coins with a bored expression on his face.

Richard knows people have many opinions of him, but this is a new one. Bored and unimpressed by the person before him.

Crystal eventually leans forward with his elbows on his knees and nods. 

"The incident shook him up, he made a big fuss with the nurses." He says. "Said someone, you— I suppose, wanted to capture him."

"Go on." Richard says.

"Well, they believed he would do better if he weren't in an area he felt wasn't safe. So they transferred him over to Leeds." 

"Leeds?"

"Yes, Leeds." Crystal says calmly. "I don't know what exact facility, but he said Leeds would be perfect. It's far away and he's never been there, he said. So no familiar faces." 

"Leeds."

Richard leans back into his chair. He strokes his chin. He never considered Roger might have fled the city. 

"He wasn't done with his program. With a transfer he stood a better chance, is what he said in therapy, anyway." Crystal adds nonchalantly. 

When Richard thinks about it, it makes sense.

A normal program at a rehab center would have taken longer. Roger wanted to leave early and he was told a transfer would be better. Somewhere far away where the Bull Crew doesn't operate on the streets. It's clever. The only way Roger could sufficiently get rid of him. It explain why Freddie Mercury isn't in his old house in London anymore. Richard suspects he moved in time with Roger to Leeds. 

He gets up om his feet and steps away from Crystal with a newfound determination.

He knows where to look now. He's got a lead. 

Narrowed brown eyes watch him stagger away and leave. His heart is pounding and blood rushes through his veins rapidly, like he's experiencing an adrenaline rush. He leaves Crystal and his drugs behind and goes straight for the stairs instead of the elevator. 

He has a lead now.

★☆★  
_  
Roger is still numb from his heroin high when Richard drags him off the bed by his arm. His bare feet drag over the carpet into the hallway. The post-drug haze takes a toll on his body. The inside of his mouth tastes like he's sucked on a 50p coin. His skin fits too tight around his skeleton and every single muscle that strings his body together is sore._

_In that state he is pushed into the bathroom and made to clean himself up._

_"Take a shower and clean up." Richard orders tightly. "Shave. Be thorough."_

_The door closes with a thud. Roger frowns and rubs his eyes with the back of his hands to see if he can clear his blurry vision. After steadying himself on the sink, Roger makes his way over to the shower and peels his clothes off his body before getting in._

_He isn't sure what exactly is going on, but by the new shaving cream and liquid soap waiting for him in the shower, Roger knows he's entertaining a client._

_By the rare nervous edge in Richards voice, it's an important client._

_The request must have come in at a short notice. Richard wouldn't have allowed Roger to get high close to an important appointment._

_At least he isn't high now. He was sleeping off the more nasty after effect of the high._

_The warm water beating down his back and his face is the only thing that helps him wake up and his body to loosen up. For his own sake, he uses his fingers to lazily pry himself open. Not for his own pleasure or to get aroused, but to he prepared in case his client isn't one for patience or mercy._

_He finishes his shower just as Richard knocks on the door sharply._

_"Roger. There is a car waiting outside."_

_"I'm hurrying." Roger murmurs just loud enough for Richard to hear. He went as fast as he could shaving his legs and private parts, while also preparing and cleaning himself. He doesn't think anyone could have done it faster without injuring themselves. Especially not after the doses of heroin he just had. He doubts Richard could do it, but Roger keeps those thoughts for himself and dries himself down with a towel next to the sink. "How much time so we have left?"_

_"No time." Richard says tensely. "Hurry up. You're expected."_

_The car means he's going to a client, which isn't usual. In fact, never in his career as a prostitute has Roger been picked up by a car worth more than any house he's ever lived in. It waits for them in front of Richards apartment. It stands out as a sore thumb in the decaying neighborhood._

_Richard is nervous. His hand on Rogers hip tenses when a tall muscular man guides Roger into the car by his shoulder._

_"Welcome Mr Taylor."_

_"Thank you." Roger says kindly._

_He's not nervous as much as he is confused._

_The interior of the car is as extravagant as the exterior. It smells like new, like fresh leather and lemon._

_In the front sits an elderly chauffeur with a cunning eye. He looks away when Roger meets his gaze in the rearview mirror, but he still caught a glimpse of his green gaze. Richard comes to sit next to Roger. He drags Rogers hand into his lap and squeezes him. Roger squeezes back._

_The tall man who had opened the door sits down in the passenger seat and as soon as he is inside, they drive off._

_Roger doesn't look at Richard or the two men in the front. His eyes are fixated on the world outside. He isn't usually awake during the day to witness the afternoon. Once they are out of their shabby neighborhood they reach a large school which is in an old building. Children in uniforms jump around, talk, tease, run, point at the car as they pass._

_Every now and then Richard squeezes his hand and Roger spares him a glance._

_He is starting to wonder if he did something wrong and he's gotten himself into trouble. He wouldn't know what it is, but Richards reaction is alarming. They are on their way to someone important. Perhaps Roger hasn't been making enough profit. Maybe someone complained about him. Maybe they found out that he sometimes takes drugs clients offer him, even though it is a rule that he can't have drugs unless it's from the Bull Crew._

_He hopes he won't be in trouble. It wouldn't make sense to why Richard forced him to clean and shave._

_After passing the school and a number of houses with red roofs and yellow doors, Roger watches as they pass a large green park with Queen Victorias name plastered onto the fence. They are getting further away from the inner city and Roger wonders where else they might he going, because as far as he knows, the Crew doesn't operate outside of London._

_If they were alone in the car he would have asked Richard, but the chauffeurs stern gaze he caught earlier on stops Roger from vocalizing his confusion._

_The car crosses a bridge that is red and industrial, somewhat like a miniature version of the Golden Gate Bridge. It is too small for two cars to cross at once. They drive across it and onto a road that's gravel and old. They reach what looks to be an old factory area, with decaying buildings and abandoned warehouses._

_Roger doesn't expect for the car to stop in front of one of the crumbling warehouses, but a glance at Richard shows that they are at the right place._

_The man in the passenger seat gets out first to open Rogers door for him._

_"We must hurry. He is expecting you."_

_"Alright." Roger says and huddles himself closer to Richard when the man leads him to the rustic metal entrance of the warehouse. Richard stays beside him, even when the car drives off behind them._

_Together they wait for the door to open and Roger hangs onto Richards arm._

_There are a billion things he wants to ask. Many of which revolve around why they are here and where here is. Richard answers his panicked look with a grim sternness that has replaced his previous nerves._

_It is like the situation has settled and he has made peace with the circumstances in which they find themselves._

_He doesn't understand why, but before they enter the building the tall man stands in the door opening with his hand up._

_"The rules are simple. You touch nothing and you do nothing unless directed. You cannot speak unless spoken to and everything you see here stays between these walls. Any word out, and you're a dead man." He tilts his chin up. Roger suddenly realizes he is only talking to him, not Richard. "Understood?"_

_"Yes."_

_"That is ‘yes, sir,’ from now on. Make no mistakes."_

_The man steps to the side and gestures for them to walk over the threshold into the old orange bricked warehouse. It is mostly dark inside, aside from the spare lightening that comes from the high ceiling windows. The entire floor is a hard grey concrete. Roger isn't sure what he had expected to see, but it's exactly like the outside, old, fallen into despair and abandoned._

_His eyesight is poor and only several steps later his eyes manage to focus on a man standing in the middle of the room with his hands behind his back._

_Roger hasn't seen him before and he would have remembered him with the odd presence he exudes._

_He has black-greying slicked back hair. His face is sunken and once handsome, while his shoulders and arms are still bulking underneath his expensive suit. If he is part of the crew, he has a much higher position than someone like Richard._

_Before they come into hearing-radius of the boss, Richard tugs on Rogers arm and forces his ear closer to his mouth._

_"Do whatever he says." He hisses._

_It is the last thing he manages to say before they are eye to eye with the mysterious figure._

_Something heavy sets on Rogers stomach when he meets the cold gaze of the man. Its weight bores right through Rogers skull and out again. He feels uneasy standing there with nothing to hold onto when Richard pulls away from his touch._

_He speaks only when the boss pries his eyes from Roger to him. Chin tilted with mild boredom._

_"We came as fast as we could." Richard clarifies. "Roger had come home from work just before your car arrived."_

_"How inconvenient." The boss' lips curl upwards but he isn't smiling. He turns back to Roger and Roger wishes he was asleep on the floor at home rather than meandering through this unusual situation. Something about this mans eyes tells Roger to bite his tongue and watch his step. "You are Roger Taylor, correct?"_

_"Yes sir."_

_"Good." This time the man actually grins at the tremble in Rogers voice. He hasn't blinked. Not once. "I'm Gillian, perhaps you haven't heard of me, but I am your boss."_

_Roger isn't sure if he should reply or not. He sends a look at Richard, which gets misinterpreted by Gillian._

_"You thought Richard was your boss? Certainly you didn't think Richard owned the Bull Crew?"_

_"No sir." Roger says._

_"No. Who do you think controls the crew?"_

_Rogers heart is racing. He doesn't understand why he is being quizzed. He rubs his palms dry on his jeans. "You sir. I suppose it's you."_

_Gillian clasps his hands together and the sound echoes through the high ceiling warehouse. "Indeed. So if I control the whole crew, who else do I control?"_

_"I—I don't..."_

_"I like him," Gillian runs his tongue over his teeth and looks straight at Richard. "You can come pick him up in an hour or so, when I'm done with him."_

_"Of course." Richard manages to squeeze out of his tight throat. "Certainly, sir."_

_A glint of pleasure crosses Gillians eye. Roger realizes that is arousing to him. Having Richard volunteer something that is dear to him. It's somehow worse than the usual client, because it isn't business. Roger suspects Richard won't see a penny for this. It’s a power trip._

_"Come with me, sweet thing. We have an awful lot to do in a limited amount of time."_

_Gillians touch is surprisingly gentle but firm. He guides Roger away from Richard with his hand on the small of his back._

_Roger finds it hard to stay together under the circumstances._

_His body is sore and tingly from his post-drugged state and the prospect of another client who is using him for a little power trip against his boyfriend sounds like the last straw for a collapse._

_They enter a hallway thats pitch black but Gillian leads him through, until he puts Rogers hand on the railing of a spiral staircase._

_"Steady?"_

_"Yes sir." Roger pipes out._

_He follows the pattern of the steps to reach the top floor. Gillian is right behind him and purposely rests his arm around Rogers waist while he opens the final door that leads into a surprisingly bright and luxurious penthouse._

_Roger steps into the light and has to squint against it._

_"Not what you expected right?" Gillian grins and closes the door behind himself. "Right?"_

_"No sir." Roger says._

_He doesn't seem like as much of a creep as some of his other clients. He is old, but not repulsively so. Once he rids himself of his coat and his shoes by the door, he takes a good look at Roger. Like he is finally drinking in the image before him._

_Roger stands perfectly still wit his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn't look anywhere in particular, just staring off at a blank spot on the wall._

_Gillians gaze falters, eventually. Roger inhales sharply when it does._

_"Leave your shoes by the door and follow me."_

_With that, Gillian shuffles across the white hallway into another room and he leaves the door open for Roger._

_Roger mentally prepares himself for whats to come. He leans against the doorpost while prying his shoes off his feet. Worst case scenario is that he'll be expected to put up an act for the old man. Make it seem like he is getting the best sex of his life. Normal clients usually don't require that, but he was specifically told to do anything this man says._

_His head is spinning and he is dizzy._

_The fluffy carpet under his feet is the only thing that grounds him now. He shuffles over to the bedroom and without allowing himself to hesitate, he pushes inside._

_"Taking your time I see."_

_Roger closes the door behind himself and comes to a halt with his back against the door. "Sorry sir."_

_Gillian waves him off._

_When he turns around he reveals to Roger that he is holding two cilinder glasses of whiskey. One for him and one he holds out for Roger._

_"Come here and have a drink. Loosen you up a little." He orders. Roger steps closer and takes the offered glass between his hands to sip from the rim a safe step away from the older man. Gillian finishes his own drink with two generous gulps. Roger takes it as his cue to hurry with his own._

_The wicked taste burns his throat. He isn't used to straight alcohol, not this early in the day. Not without a proper meal in the last twenty-four hours._

_Gillian has filled his own glass again when Roger finishes his own, but instead of drinking from it, he takes Rogers empty glass and replaces it with his own._

_"Have another."_

_The glass is filled to the brim. It's three shots in one. Roger takes the glass and stares into the brown copper liquor with a thick gulp. "Sir.." He hesitates to say. "I-I'll be drunk, sir."_

_"Whatever you need." Gillian throws his hand over his shoulder when he turns towards the bed, large and covered in a soft satin sheet._

_Roger watches the man undress himself quick and efficiently without seeming hurried._

_He climbs onto the bed in only his underwear. Roger realizes he's been doing nothing and staring, disobedient. Gillian sends him a raised eyebrow and Roger gets on with it, chucking down the awful taste of the hard liquor like a glass of iced water on a hot summer day. He wishes not for the first time, that he was someone else._

_Once he finished his glass, he smooths out his face and works through the immediate haze that's fallen over him._

_He might just barf it all up again at this rate._

_"Leave that on the table and come stand here."_

_"Sir."_

_Roger drags his feet over to the table to leave the glass there. Then he makes his way to Gillians bedside. He stares down at the all powerful man. Roger might vomit over him and accept his inevitable death that will follow._

_Gillian opens the bedside drawer and fetches himself a thick hand rolled cigar._

_The smoke filters through Rogers nose. He doesn't gag. In fact, it helps him work through the nausea somewhat._

_"Strip." Gillian orders with his lips wrapped around the other end._

_Roger doesn't need to be told twice. He lazily works himself out of his clothes. This is where he is usually a big disappointment for his clients. His ribs poke out in odd angles and he is covered in bruises and scars that are evidence of the truth many don't want to face when renting a prostitute: That he is a prostitute._

_He finishes undressing with Gillians constant undivided attention._

_Once done with his clothes pooling around his legs, Roger stands there, frozen, not shivering because the room is kept heated, waiting for further instructions._

_The glint of power has returned to Gillians eye._

_"Lay down on the bed. Face up."_

_Roger nods mutely. He climbs onto the bed and lays on his back on the spot next to Richards. He doesn't open his legs, doesn't look away from the ceiling unless instructed otherwise._

_Gillian sits against the headboard with his cigar in his hand. He looks down on Roger and lazily drags his index finger from his chin doen to the curve of his neck and chest._

_Roger stays quiet throughout, not sure what to make of it. He doesn't miss Gillian hardening in his underwear._

_The silence is broken moments later with a cough and a puff._

_"You're the apple of his eye." The older man murmurs around his smoke._

_Roger pretends to be oblivious and asks the ceiling, "Who?"_

_"Richard." Gillian indulges him. He flicks iff the ash and it falls into the bed and the satin. Neither of them cares. "There's something powerful about taking someone's dearest from them and deviling it. There is no crime in wanting to keep control over what you own." He says sternly. With a conviction that even Roger finds admirable in these circumstances._

_Gillian pauses and rests his palm flat in too of Rogers chest. Roger finally allows himself to look at him through the cloud of smoke he has created._

_"I'll defile you," Gillian decides. "Richard will remember his place and remember how much he cherishes you."_

_Through the drag of it all, the humiliation, the objectification, the sickness and pain, Roger fights traitorous tears that well up in the corners of his eyes._

_"Am I supposed to be grateful?" Roger asks._

_"No." Gillian replies simply, before leaving his cigar on the ede of the bedside table to climb on top of Roger and pin him down with his suffocating weight. "No. You can shut up and take it as it is. When I'm done with you, it'll send the message to Richard."  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Babes. Loves. Sweets. What are we thinking???
> 
> (Edit:) Not updating next Sunday (26th) I’m really ill right now and haven’t been able to finish the chapter on time


	28. Of Selling and Being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger goes to work with Freddie and realizes what life can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so one or two of you must have noticed that I had a tiny breakdown on tumblr and left. 
> 
> This was because nearly every time Queen was on my dash, people were in the replies or tags bashing each other, making fun of other people’s edits, stealing each others work. Bullying people. Etc.
> 
> I am genuinely tired. I’m not gone from the fandom but I’m tired. Stop being so goddamn mean, all of us adults have an obligation to be accepting and have manners. Where have those gone? 
> 
> So, my breakdown isn’t completely over, but it is the most uninspiring to create an environment like that. So I removed myself from it. 
> 
> This being said, **if you wanna be part of a discord server for queen fic readers/writers** , let me know in the comments so we can keep interacting outside of AO3 ❤️
> 
> Okay so here is a 10.000 chapter lol

"So this is it darling, how do you like it?"

"That doorframe needs a layer of paint." Roger runs a hand down the wood as he enters the stall. "It's a bit stuffy inside. Have you gotten the time to clean up yet?"

"Not much, that's why you are here!"

Freddie wraps his fingers around Rogers wrists and Roger allows himself to be dragged inside the tiny stall which Freddie proudly presents.

"I'm here to clean?" Roger asks before he is let go of in the middle of the room. Every inch of the place is somehow used to display the clothing and trinkets Freddie is trying to sell. There's only just enough room to maneuver yourself between the clothing racks. Roger looks around and he likes it, even though his nose is prickling and a sneeze is eagerly waiting to release itself from his chest. It looks homey and functional, which Roger likes.

He thinks it can use a good cleaning and maybe there is something they can do about the dreadful exterior to stand out from the other stalls, but overall Freddie has done an impressive job of using the small space efficiently. 

"I can just see the wheels turning." Freddie is perched up on the register desk, he's smiling. "Tell me."

"Well I was thinking maybe we should do something to lure more clients in— after we have cleaned this place up of course. We need to stand out."

Roger unbuttons the coat he borrowed from John and hangs it over the clothing rack behind him. 

"You see, I was thinking a big sign and maybe we could play some music. If we keep the door open, it'll look and sound more attractive to customers." 

Freddie's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. 

Roger pauses and cocks his head sideways. Freddie never makes him feel like he's overstepped a boundary. Not even now. "Something wrong?"

"No." Freddie pushes away from the register desk and clasps his hands together. "I am amazed is all." 

Rogers heart makes a leap and he hates how he loves the approval Freddie hands out with such ease. He is pulled into a tight hug and he basks in Freddie's presence. "I knew I was a genius for making you my business partner."

"Business partner." Roger laughs. 

It is somewhat surreal. A month ago he was stuck in a rehab ward playing poker with Crystal over their soppy breakfast. Now he is out into the real world co-owning a shop, a second hand clothing shop with Freddie Mercury. 

The day has barely begun and Rogers cheeks are already aching from smiling too much. He never released life could be this simple.

Eventually Freddie breaks the hug and pulls back after a final squeeze of Rogers arms. "A good cleanup, some music— I have a record player in the back."

"In the back?" Roger asks and watches Freddie dash for the stack of boxes behind the counter. There really is no 'the back'. The store is a single room of severely square meters. Even the fitting room is a simple curtain in the corner. Freddie lifts one box off another and opens it to reveal an old dust covered record player. He shows it to Roger with a delightful smile. 

"We can totally make this work!" He puts it down on the register desk with a grunt. "I'll run down the record shop around the corner and also buy some paint so we can redo the front of the store. How does that sound?"

Roger blinks at him. Those are all _his_ ideas, and Freddie goes into them headfirst.

He doesn't know how to vocalize how much it means to him that his ideas are genuinely being taken serious without a question, without a doubt. Roger just stands there, in the middle of the store, with a bewildered look in his eyes. He fiddles with his fingers, unsure what to do with them. 

"I don't know what to say."

"Well they were your plans darling, we might as well get started now!" Freddie throws his hands in the air. "I have been trying to get more clients for weeks, I just assumed it was harder right after the holidays in this shit weather. We should use your ideas to bring more money in."

"Do we have the money for records and paint?" Roger asks instead. He never bought either and has no idea how much either really costs.

What he does know is that Freddie barely brings money into the household, leaving most of the financial weight on Johns shoulders. 

"Well if it generates more clients it's an investment." Freddie drawls easily.

Roger watches him open the cash register, which is a little basket with money in various organized stacks. From there Freddie pockets a few crumbled bills and decides that will do.

He then closes the register again and walks around the desk to plant a kiss to the corner of Rogers mouth.

"As adorable as you are, we can't have you loitering around all day. There is work to do!" 

Roger waits until Freddie pulls back before he breathes again. His skin tingles where Freddie's lips touched him and he traces the touch with his own fingertips. 

Something magical happened when he met Freddie. Roger realized that a long time ago. But he never imagined the same magic would continue to run between them up until the present. He watches Freddie straighten his coat in the full-body mirror beside the wooden shelf of stacked hats. He has a mesmerizing blue turtleneck beneath his woolen trench coat. The contrast to his skin, eyes and hair is alluring, too much for Roger to look away. 

Eventually when Freddie decides he's decent and stalks over to the door, Roger snaps out of his haze.

"You're going to leave me here?" 

Freddie turns around before he turns the door handle. There's a fond smile on his face. "You'll be alright, right?" 

Roger shrugs. "The store won't open until eleven right?"

"I'll be back before that." Freddie promises. "You can start sniffing around, get to know the place, maybe start on the cleaning if you feel up to it." 

Roger makes himself nod along with Freddie. He's never had a real job before and can't remember the last time he went to a shop without being afraid for his life to pay attention to how a good store is run, but he can pretend, at least for the few minutes Freddie is gone. He can act and one day it'll come naturally.

"Darling?"

"Yes. Yes that's fine— you should leave. I'll start cleaning." Roger hastens to say. 

Freddie leaves with a final playful link before he leaves the store in Rogers care. Roger watches him huddle in the cold through the large glass windows overlooking the now empty streets. Not many people are out shopping at this hour. Roger finds himself waiting until Freddie is out of sight before he can move again, but even after that he checks for the car belonging to Andrei. 

He doesn't see it. 

Rogers heart settles in a less rapid pace now that he is alone without the feeling of being watched.

There's something about the store that calms him down. Perhaps because it reminds him so much of Freddie. It even smells like Freddie if one manages to ignore the odor of really old clothes. 

He'd already taken a good look around the room when he first entered. The ceiling is low and they have very little space, but generally speaking, it's interior is cozy and logically categorized. All the trousers are on one rack, all the t-shirts, the tops, blouses and sweaters are categorized by season and color. The same goes for coats and stray jackets and blazers. He also likes how Freddie displayed some of his art and put the gloves and belts in one basket ready for grabs. Freddie had to have done this all by himself, which is incredibly impressive.

When he finishes admiring the store and familiarizing himself with every nook and decision Freddie made for the interior, Roger finds the cleaning supplies in one of the few boxes Freddie keeps stacked behind the desk. 

Inside he finds a feather duster he uses to clean up the shelves. He is extra careful to preserve the clothes from the thick balls of dust he finds everywhere and he doubts Freddie had cleaned it at all, since moving in. 

But Roger doesn't complain. He never used to think time flies while he worked the streets. 

In fact while he worked for Richard he used to count the seconds under his breath, thinking that keeping track of the time made him realize he was coming closer to an end of the night, because when he became numb, time seemed to stand still. 

This is different. He whistles a tune he doesn't recognize and continues the song quietly while he works his way around the room. 

He finishes dusting and goes onto brooming the dust from the floor. 

The time passes how it passes, Roger pays no attention to it. He finishes a task and starts a new one. When he worst of the dust is gone he fills a bucket with water— which is cold and adds liquid soap. Cold water won't clean as efficiently as hot water, but he uses it anyway to run down the cash register and clean up the windows from the finger and hand prints. 

Freddie returns while Roger stands on a wooden crate to reach the top of the window. 

From the other side of the glass he holds up two bags with a triumphant grin. "Got them!" He mouths.

Roger lowers his arms and smiles back. 

With Freddie comes a gush of cold wind and Roger shivers. "Is March supposed to be so cold?"

"Oh Darling, it's practically winter until June." 

Freddie puts down the heavier bag with a grunt, the paint. The other bag is put on the register. It is a pile of second hand records, Freddie takes them out and trashes the bag. 

Roger climbs down from the crate and wipes the sweat away that had gathered on his forehead.

"Got any good deals on those LPs?"

"Certainly." Freddie holds up "Bob Dylan, Nashville Skyline. Heard of it?" 

"No." He says honestly. The man on the album looks a little like Brian, though Roger doubts Brian would voluntarily rock a cowboy hat. 

"It's a good one, I'll pop it on and join you." 

Freddie shrugs off his coat and hangs it over a nearby rack. Roger watches him quietly. There is something about Freddie that's fascinating to watch. It's got something to do with his grace and the fluidity of his movements. The manner in which he turns over the record to place the first side up without touching either side of the sensitive vinyl seems like something out of a rehearsed movie. It makes it easy for Roger to get lost in the sight of him and the ease of his movements. 

Moments later the depressingly slow song is playing and Freddie comes out from behind the counter to poke Roger back into the present.

"It's a wonder you got so much done while you're constantly spacing out." Freddie grins. 

He wraps an arm around Rogers shoulder and looks around the room with an impressed look. "You really did do a lot. Don't overwork yourself, we got loads of time to bring this place into shape."

"I didn't think I was going particularly fast." Roger points out.

Freddie hums and suddenly takes Rogers hand to twirl him around on the slightly faster paced song on the Bob Dylan album. He yelps and manages to find his footing before Freddie takes his second hand too and sways them from side to side on the swinging rhythm of the music.

"So I got a lovely discount on a pot of yellow paint." 

"Brilliant." Roger chuckles. 

"Good, we can start painting the outside today if you feel up to being in the cold all day." Freddie pants, slightly out of breath from the sudden dancing. 

Roger is not doing much of the dancing, he's holding onto Freddie and allowing himself to be dragged around without complaint.

"If we're cold together it's alright, right?"

"Right." 

The rest of the Bob Dylan album mostly consists of slow songs Freddie doesn't like to dance on, which means they go back to working until the album ends.

Freddie also invested in Let it Be, which plays in the background while they cuff up their sleeves and get their brushes ready to paint the door and the window frames. They leave the door wide open so the room can air and they can hear the music while they work. 

"We're on our way home."

"We're on our way home. We're going home."

"You and I have memories, longer than the road that stretches out ahead." Roger sings back, smiling despite the cold that clings to his finger tips and numbs his lips. 

"Two of us wearing raincoats. Standing so low, in the sun." Freddie too is shivering from head to toe. 

Working many years in the cold on the streets, is much more used to the harsh climate than Freddie. Roger feels so bad for him he offers to finish the job alone. 

"Don't be ridiculous, it will take twice as long if you have to do it alone." Freddie explains with a flick of the wrist. A splatter of paint falls on the street, Roger doesn't comment on it and works on his side faster so they can go back inside quickly. "Anything is bearable if we do it together."

"Fuck you're cheesy." Roger says with an eye roll that's so full of fondness that his chest hurts. 

"Look who's talking. You're a mess of emotions." 

"You know that's really insensitive considering you knowing my history as my past therapist." Roger points out whilst biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning like a goof.

Freddie pauses and turns to him without any sorts of pity on his face. "I was hardly your therapist at any point. Most of my clients don't end up living at my house you know?"

"You're telling me Brian and John are not your rescues from a mental hospital?" 

"Shocker right?" Freddie shrugs. "I sure do pick them out." 

He goes back to work and Roger takes a longer look at Freddie squatted down by the door to paint the fine corners with a fresh yellow coat. 

"Yeah, you sure do." 

The paint job takes a whole hour because of the tiny nooks and many corners they have to trace precisely. By the time they're finished neither of them has any feeling in their hands, fingers or toes. Roger tries wriggling his nose, but even that doesn't move.

Freddie makes them a cup of tea and they drink it huddled behind the cash register against each other.

Rogers fingers are tingling with a thousand pins and needles when he keeps them on the teacup long enough. He's happy Freddie thought of buying a kettle when he found out the store doesn't offer any warm water. This could possibly be the best tea he's ever had. Even if he can't dump a billion kilos of sugar in it. 

Roger bumps his knee into Freddie's to make him look up. Freddie raises his eyebrow. "Are you okay?" He asks Roger.

"Yes. I was just going to say that I think it's probably past eleven. We should open the store."

"After we've finished." Freddie says solemnly with his lips on the brim of his glass.

Roger nods and realizes that if the rest of his life is spend like this, listening to Frank Sinatras 'My Way' album, huddled close to Freddie while the day isn't even half over, he'd never complain about a single thing ever again. 

At first he isn't sure how he would handle clients. Freddie after finishing his tea had opened the door wide and flipped the sign that said 'closed' to 'open'. 

The music they've got playing inside lures in their first client, which is an elderly woman. 

Roger observers Freddie's behavior. How he talks to the woman, the tone he uses, the wording he picks. Roger watches Freddie's posture and the distance he stands from the woman. She seems pleased by him and allows herself to be brought to the little brown chest with jewelry Freddie keeps on the desk to keep an eye on. 

He holds it open for the woman and presents them for her up close. Roger takes note of how Freddie tries to convince her to get something. He makes a comment on each individual piece her eyes linger on. It's really impressive and Roger doubts he could learn to do that on such a short term. Freddie reacts to each piece with such enthusiasm that's infectious. The elderly woman ends up buying two necklaces with an almost-fitting bracelet. She pays the full asking price, which Freddie slides in with such careful precision, Roger thinks surgeons are jealous.

When she leaves and Freddie is done cashing the money into the register, he grins at Roger proudly.

"That's how it's done."

Roger compliments him, even though Freddie doesn't need it. The older man brushes it off with such grace Rogers breath is taken away and then moves on to empty a rack of clothes for outside display, like Roger suggested.

Together they pick their most eye catching pieces and put them on the rack. 

Roger wheels it outside and is put in charge for arranging them so that people will see them and want to come inside for more. Roger thinks of three different orders before he settles with the right categories. Inside Freddie is going through his boxes and seeing what can be thrown out and what can be sold. 

Roger took the task of the rack so that he can still observe Freddie deal with clients from the sidelines.

Therefore he doesn't expect to he tapped on the shoulder by two giggling young women. 

He positively jumps at the sudden touch.

"Oh sorry, didn't mean to give you a fright!" One of them says kindly. 

Roger nods, taking a deep breath. "That's fine." He says and his heart is racing. He can't remember what Freddie had said when approaching a customer. "Fine." He repeats when he doesn't know what to say. 

The girl is wearing a long skirt and a top cropped by scissors at home. Roger can't help but like it. 

"You look really lovely today, ladies." He says with a cool seriousness he feels could attract clients all the same. He leans against the rack with his arm. "How can I help you today?"

"We were just looking around and saw that lovely skirt you got up there."

She points at the red skirt that's so short it could have been a belt. He takes it off the rack to offer it to her. She takes it with a grateful smile. 

"This is really cute." She comments to her friend.

Roger doesn't want to stare. He turns back to his rack of clothing and rearranges it so the skirt doesn't leave a gap.

The girl holds the item to her middle and her friend tries to judge how it'll look with a twisted face.

"We've got a changing space and mirrors inside, ladies." Roger comments eventually when he thinks it's okay to interfere. The girls turn to him and he straightens his shoulders. "My business partner is inside, he'll show you our skirt section and tell you about our discount if you buy multiple items today." 

"Really?" The girl not holding the skirt asks.

Well, Roger hadn't actually asked Freddie if that's okay, but Freddie had told him that they buy their clothes in bulk and that the prices are flexible if necessary. 

"Certainly." Roger flashes them their teeth.

Pride surges within him when the girls enter the stall with a murmured comment on his hospitality. 

Roger never felt as accomplished as he does right now.

He continues with the display rack until it is up to his liking. He steps back to stand on the sidewalk and have a broad view of their little stall, with a now fresh paint, loud melodic music coming from the inside and a lovely display of their favorite clothes on the left, whilst keeping the right window free for customers to look inside the clean and overflowing store. 

Inside he sees Freddie talking to the two girls across the register. He is smiling, in his element.

Roger could watch him work for hours without getting bored.

Eventually the two girls leave the store with pink faces, giggling and cheery with the sun now coming out in the later afternoon. While they leave they wave at Roger over their shoulder.

"Thank you for the discount, good sir!" The first girl teases and swings her laden bag with newly purchased clothes from their stall. "Great recommendation."

Roger shakes his head in bewilderment. _Did he get them to buy all that_?. "You're welcome, young ladies." 

They leave with their arms hooked and a skip in their step.

Roger finds himself flowing back into the store when they are out of his sight. He walks up to Freddie, who is counting their money with morbid fascination.

"How the hell did you get those women to come inside?" 

"I don't know really." Roger says and rubs his freezing hands together on his trousers. "Did they really get all that from here?"

"Yes!" Freddie grins. He waves the money in the air and Roger is sure that if either of them was superstitious this would be considered financial bad luck. "They had money, darling. Good money." 

"They were rich?"

"You couldn't tell?!" Freddie gawks. 

Roger shakes his head. "No? I just did what I saw you doing. I didn't know they would— what are you doing?" Roger chuckles when Freddie dashes from around the desk to wrap his arms around Roger like an overgrown octopus. 

Roger gives into the hug faster than he's ever given into something in his life.

Freddie is warm and grounding when Roger is cold and feels jittery with nerves and adrenaline. He wraps his arms around Freddie's neck and wills them to stay like this for a little longer. 

"Alright?" Roger asks eventually. 

"Yes." Freddie chuckles into Rogers hair. "Yes, I just... I got me the best business partner ever. How amazing is that?"

Roger closes his eyes and lets Freddie nuzzle his neck hoping the customers will stay away for another two minutes. He gives Freddie a squeeze and says, "Yeah, really fucking amazing."

★☆★

It is a big contrast between working a full shift at the store and then being dropped off at his support group for an hour long session.

Roger feels like he's been pushed into a freezing lake and he's woken up from his surreal version of reality to be reminded of his past and true self. Working with Freddie all day, dancing and singing and talking to costumers about belts and different kinds of fabrics and how to iron them properly, had caused Roger to forget all about himself. 

He hadn't craved any drugs for all his hours slaving away. He had— after the fifth or seventh customer, not even worried about Richard being the next one entering the store. 

It is a hit in the face. A bucket of ice water. A rude awakening. 

Roger sits out his hour in the support group in the tiny children's chairs and listening to people's awful accounts of relapses and trauma. Accounts too familiar to his own experiences.

He wishes these meetings wouldn't bring him down so much. He had mentioned it to Dominique, she had reassured him that seeing people in dire positions because of their addiction is not supposed to be easy, but reflective. 

He manages to stay quiet the entire session. In fact, a curt head shake ensures he doesn't even have to partake in the conversation when it's his turn. Denise, the group leader takes him aside while the others are eagerly consuming the dinner she brought, turkey sandwiches. Roger rememberers a time where he depended on those sandwiches to get through the night without blacking out. 

Denise pulls him aside while Roger munches on the doughy bread with little interest. 

She corners him when caught off guard, which is a good skill for a councilor. She has a concerned frown between her over-plucked brows. Roger feels bad for worrying her. He should be the least of her worries.

"I know this isn't easy, but you have to pull yourself together and participate." She says.

Roger stays mostly quiet because he doesn't know what to say. Partly because he doesn't have the energy to explain or defend himself. 

"Everyone makes a long journey of recovery. It might seem easier to go home and not return to this world ever again, but your addiction will stay a part of you. Whether you want it or not, an addiction is a lifelong journey." Denise puts her hand on her hip and sighs. "It sucks having to report back here every day, but you are fresh out of treatment. Everything may seem fine and easy now, but the tide can change fast and you may be caught off guard. You need to continue treating your addiction, even if it is boring or numbing or feels like a waste of time."

She finishes speaking and waits for Roger to lower his sandwich to acknowledge what had just been said.

It makes perfect sense, they can't just let him run loose into the world after being a heroin addict for over four years. Dominique can't see him every day of the week, but the support group can and it is the easiest way to keep track of him and in a routine. It makes sense, but it doesn't make it easy. 

"I'm tired." 

Denise smiles, a little sad. She seems tired too. Roger can't imagine being the group leader of all these sick bastards. The lines on her face bear witness to the sleepless nights and rapid aging this life has caused her. 

"Try to bask in that exhaustion. Take it in, make it your own." 

She bites back a chuckle when Roger frowns. 

"I mean, sobriety means dealing with emotions headfirst. If you're tired, let yourself be tired. If you are angry, allow yourself to be angry. Feel with passion and understand your inner self, because there will be no drugs to aid you in avoiding those hard moments. You understand?"

"Yes." Roger murmurs. Maybe he does. 

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He feels the sore pull of his muscles in his arms and his thighs because of his work at the stall. He feels the weigh of his eyelids over his eyes and is aware of it even when he reopens them. His shoulders ache and his head feels heavy atop his neck, but he is somewhat satisfied, knowing it came from hard work.

Denise is still standing in front of him, "Humans feel. Allow yourself to feel it if this hour makes you feel sad or even defeated. Feel it. Bask in it. Then, after acknowledging what it is you experience, deal with it. And before you ask me how, think of it as your homework. Look at your coping mechanisms in your recovery plan. Okay?"

It's a lot to take in, too much for one day. Even if he realizes that's exactly what Dominique has been trying to tell him for weeks it isn't something he's ever done before.

He never stood still to consciously experience his emotions. Aside from the times that he snapped due to bursting with rage, tantrums he's had since he was a child, Roger never could express his emotions. Not when his father hit him with his bare hands or his belt. Not when his mother fled from their home and asked Roger to keep it together for her. Not when he was given no choice but to be raised amongst gang members and prostitutes. 

Then his mother died and Richard introduced the only coping mechanism that ever allowed Roger to rid himself of any and all emotional pain.

Although, temporarily and with a price. 

Roger never confronted his emotions. That's why he has meltdowns, sleepless nights and blood boiling anger. 

He realizes he's been staring at Denise blankly. He nods his head slowly, despite having just figured that he's got quite the task before him. "Alright."

"Alright!" She clasps his shoulder and passes by him to wrap the remaining sandwiches for people to take home with them. 

The session continues after the dinner break. Roger sits in his chair and bears through the depressing accounts of his fellow addicts. He sits there and takes it. His mood is brought all the way down, but instead of zoning out, he wills himself to stay alert and listen and feel no matter how much he would rather not be reminded or exposed to the horrors of the world he had left behind when leaving Richard.

He is fueled with exhaustion and unresolved traumas heavy on his heart by the time they are allowed to go. 

His consolation comes racing around the corner, ten minutes late and spluttering apologies while Roger rounds the car to sit down in the passenger seat.

Freddie is usually never late to pick him up, but the weather was alright and Denise had given Roger a lit cigarette before she left him to wait alone after everyone else had already cleared out. 

"I'm so sorry, Darling! I hit traffic at the worst possible hour and I should have left earlier but I didn't keep track of time like an absolute imbecile. I'm glad it wasn't raining, thank god for small miracles. I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself if it had been. I'm sorry love, I just—"

Roger allows Freddie to ramble on for a moment. He sits back and watches him talk with wide apologetic eyes and frantic hand movement. 

He is holding two pieces of paper in his left hand, which are kind of distracting. 

The longer Roger is looking, the more he realizes his depressive mindset is making way for a sense of calm relief. Everything about Freddie exudes the exact opposite of the things he feels when he is in his support group. Freddie is excitement and love and hope. Freddie is sensitive, tender and full of joy. 

"Freddie, it's alright." Roger says eventually, when he's had his bit. He leans over to squeeze Freddie's arm. "I'm fine, it's okay." 

"Are you sure? I really am sorry dear. Don't think I'd ever abandon you or anything, I'll always come for you." 

Roger blinks. That thought hadn't actually crossed his mind while he was waiting under the roof of the school entrance smoking his cig. He'd just imagined Freddie was somehow delayed.

He thinks about the Roger he was two months ago. He would have thought Freddie had left him there and panicked in some degree. He isn't sure what exactly changed in that time, but he can't help the smile that pulls on the corners of his lips. 

"I didn't think you weren't coming." Roger says earnestly. "I trust you." 

To Freddie's credit, he blinks the dumbfounded look away faster than most people would have registered it. He grips the steering wheel and nods.

"Alright. That's, that's good." 

Roger grins wider seeing Freddie's cheeks redden under the affection. Roger leans over to kiss him on the cheek, a short but lingering touch. He doesn't fully pull back when he is done. He looks at the two pieces of paper held in Freddie's hand. "What's that?"

"Oh this?" Freddie lights up and waves the two pieces in front of Rogers eyes. "This is a little surprise for you, and also the reason why I was late."

"A surprise?" Roger asks without even attempting to diminish his excitement. 

Freddie starts the engine and before he drives off he hands Roger the two papers with a delightful grin. 

Roger is not wearing his glasses, which makes it harder to read especially in the dark. 

Freddie mutely points at the dashboard where Roger finds his glasses in their protective case. He sheepishly puts them on his nose when Freddie is engrossed with driving again. 

He holds the paper close to his face and squints to make sense of the writing. Eventually with the assistance of his glasses, the blurred words come into focus and he reads _Coppélia_. They are tickets, he realizes. Tickets to a concert or a play. 

"Coppélia?" Roger asks. Butchering the pronunciation. 

Freddie is properly wriggling in his seat. His excitement is infectious and Roger suddenly finds it hard to sit still himself. 

"Coppélia!" He exclaims. "Franz falls in love with the dancing doll and casts away his true love for the artificial life. Isn't that just exciting?!"

"I've never seen a play." Roger says, buzzing in his seat with energy. "Not since the nativity play in school." 

"It's not a play, darling. It's a ballet." 

Roger raises his eyebrows. He's never seen a ballet show either, but he's seen pictures of beautiful men in tights and women in tutus, something he's always found incredibly fascinating and a little erotic. 

"There will be music, grand music by an orchestra. They will be dancing pointe, you know?"

"What does that mean?"

"On their toes, with these special little ballet shoes. Oh you'll love it!" Freddie fawns. "There will be a huge decor and wonderful costumes, it is one of the highest forms of art."

"Really?" Roger asks. He couldn't really imagine anything like that. The largest performance he's seen has been during his time as a choirboy and those events were generally dull for a young child. "I— I don't know what to say, Fred."

"A thank you is sufficient, Darling. We worked hard enough for it."

"Is this from the money we made today?" Roger asks, holding the tickets securely in his hands. He frowns, thinking about John slaving away on his knees for hours every day fixing people's televisions and paying the majority of their bills. "Can we afford this?"

"We made an enormous profit today, we ought to celebrate! I told the guys I'd take you out to celebrate your first day. It's not like they don't know."

"Don't you think they had a pint or walk around the block to a pub in mind?" Roger asks him while failing to stop himself from smiling at the many promises Freddie has made about the ballet. It's a good thing Freddie is the ambassador of fun and pointedly ignores Rogers questioning look to focus on the road ahead.

"Alright fine." Roger gives in. His cheeks hurt from smiling too hard. "I'm excited to see this Coupalia. It sounds fun." 

"Coppélia." Freddie corrects him with a sly grin of his own.

Roger snorts. Watching Freddie drive is a calming way to pass the time while they sit in the humming silence of the motor and turned down radio. He has this serious look in his eyes and his hands are jerky, like he's a terrible driver. Roger loves watching him and getting lost in the sight of him. 

"Aren't I a little underdressed for the ballet?"

"No, no. We got some nosebleed seats anyway, her Royal Highness won't be seeing you from there. Besides, I'm in my jeans too."

"Is the Queen coming?!"

"No, no. Sorry." Freddie chuckles. "Just a manner of speech, referring to the Royal balcony sections in the theater, the opera box."

Roger listens intently. Freddie never makes him feel stupid for asking a question. It makes it easier for Roger to ask a million more. 

"Have you ever sat in the fancy seats?"

"With my mother, yes." Freddie says with a fond subdued smile. He is gazing out the window, despite that they have come to a stuttering halt in front of a stoplight. "For my birthday she used to take me to the theater, opera or ballet. It was always something we did together." 

"Just the two of you?"

"Oh yes that wasn't for my father, no. My sister never appreciated the arts as much as I did. And my mother loved everything that I loved." Freddie nods at nothing in particular. "She always tried her best and she still does. She would sit with me in the royal box and then wait for the dancers with me. After the show they sometimes hand out their shoes."

"Wouldn't they reuse them?"

"No they have to absolutely destroy those shoes to make them functional for their performance and often don't last for many. I used to have a whole collection of the pointe shoes I had gotten over the years. They are in a box somewhere at my parents house." 

Roger smiles. He sometimes wishes he had childhood memorabilia like Freddie. He wants to talk about something old and nostalgic the same way Freddie does. 

He doesn't even have a picture of himself as a child. 

"It's nice, that they hold onto those things for you."

Freddie glances at him from the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, I suppose so." 

There is something Freddie isn't saying. It strikes Roger that they have talked more about Rogers youth than that they have talked about Freddie's. Most of the information he learned from Freddie's last has come from Brian or John. He worries he should have shown more interest, or understood hints and histories he was never taught. 

"As a child did you—?"

"Ah! Nope. No no. Not tonight." Freddie holds up his hand again without looking at Roger. "Tonight we are going to your first ballet to celebrate your first day as my business partner. Isn't that neat?"

Roger at least knows when to shut up. "Yeah," He says. "Super neat."

The rest of the trip is relatively silent, aside from their off-key singing to Little Richard on the crackling radio. Roger sees the theater before Freddie can point it out to him. It is an enormous, old, building with eye catching architecture. Roger knows nothing about architecture but he imagines no costs were spared on the making of the theater. A display of wealth. 

A queue goes around the corner from the main entrance. Freddie has to drive two blocks over for a parking space. 

"Are we late?" Roger asks when Freddie hastes himself into his floral jacket after he turns of the engine. 

"Almost, but fashionably so." He grins and reaches across the back to grasp for another coat, which he hands over to Roger. "That's for you, it will help pimp up your outfit."

"Poor word choice." Roger says, without any heat behind it. The coat is actually thick and made out of fur. He wraps himself in tight and finds himself feeling a lot more confident already with its present weight on his shoulders. He turns to Freddie. "This is really nice actually."

"Will keep you warm."

Freddie winks, and then makes his way out of the car. 

Roger follows immediately, feeling somewhat invincible in his new outfit and fashionable haircut. He doesn't bat an eye when Freddie rounds the car and links their arms to drag Rogers across the street to stand in the queue.

"Do we have good seats?"

"Not particularly." Freddie grins with his back hunched. "But you'll be able to see everything, I didn't get the worst tickets obviously. I'm a man of standards!" 

"I'm sure you are." 

An air of giddiness consumes the air between them. Freddie is standing entirely too close, if someone had any suspicion that they are homosexuals than—

Mustn't think like that. Roger reminds himself. 

People add to the line behind them and steadily they make their way forward to the entrance. 

Roger holds onto Freddie rightly when their feet reach over the rolled out red carpet leading indoors. Freddie is already holding out the tickets, a polite man rips them up and tells them which way their seats are. 

Freddie seems to know the way better so than the people in red uniforms showing everyone around. After dragging Roger around the theater to find the right section and two flights of stairs, Freddie halts in front of the door that leads into the hall.

Roger stops and effectively stops all the people behind him who are also trying to get inside before the show starts. 

To his utter amazement, Freddie turns back to him and blocks the way for everyone to grin at Roger.

"This, my dear, is where the magic happens." 

"I figured." Roger grins and unzips his coat to escape the worst of the heat. "Will I be terribly shocked?"

"You'll love it— just, brace yourself. I want you to take in the moment. So take a deep breath."

"Okay."

Roger follows Freddie in an exaggerated pattern of slow breathing. He tries to stay focused on Freddie, not the gathering crowd behind him or the already nighty interior of the theater hallway. He can't imagine it being much more fancy inside, but Freddie sure makes it seem so. "You've gone quite out of your way for this."

"It's a first experience." Freddie justifies with a glint in his dashing eyes. "Can't half arse it, can I?"

"Excuse me, but what is the hold up?" Someone from behind Roger calls out. There are murmured echoes of affirmation. Roger dares not to turn around and face them, neither is Freddie. 

The older man pushes the door open quickly and pulls Roger inside to escape from the irritated crowd.

Roger is first distracted by Freddie's warm hand in his own, but then his eyes catch the golden gloss of the ceiling and the diamonds dangling off the chandeliers. The velvet cushions of the seats are a vibrant ocean of color on the several floors. To Rogers amazement their seat on the third balcony is not half bad, if somewhat far from the enormous stage covered by a golden curtain. 

It is Freddie who has to continue forcing his body to move that saves them from another run into the annoying crowd.

Freddie was right, the interior of the hallway was nothing like the inside of the large theater.

"This is beyond magnificent." Roger mumbles.

He doesn't have to look to know Freddie is wearing a shit eating grin on his face. It radiates off him. 

Freddie puts Roger in his seat, and Roger sinks back into the velvet cushion with a sigh. The sudden comfort comes as a surprise. After being on his feet all day, cleaning and painting at the store and then to support group where they force him onto wooden children's chairs, this stool could be the Queens throne for as far as Roger is concerned.

It's completely perfect when Freddie flops down beside him. 

When Roger manages to pry his eyes away from the wonders of the room, he finds Freddie staring back ar him. Their hands are also still touching. If someone sees them, they are in serious trouble, but Roger can't pull away.

"Do you get it now?" 

"I think I do." Roger repeats in the same quiet tone. The excitement of the day flows through him like the river coursing to the sea, both natural and wild. "This is beautiful Fred, thank you for taking me."

"Well I have the sneaking suspicion you'll be the last new boyfriend we'll have. At least _one_ of my partners has to enjoy musical theater and ballet for the love of God." Freddie complains.

Roger leans back into his seat. He practically melts into it. "I'll give it a fair go, how about that?"

He can't imagine being brought here and not feeling like you've entered some kind of treasure chest in an old movie or book. Everything seems to be more expensive than Roger could ever be. From the mahogany wood of the balcony to the endless meters of red carpet across the entire theater. It screams money and prestige and history, things Roger is not. 

Freddie shifts his legs just so, causing their knees to press together in support. Then he acknowledges they have been holding hands for too long with too many lights on them. 

It saddens to lose the touch. Freddie's bittersweet smile reflects everything Roger feels. 

"If I could, Roger, I would kiss you now." 

"I would kiss you back." Roger replies timidly. He can't bear the sad background of Freddie's eyes. "I _would_. Okay?"

Freddie opens his mouth to reply, but all at once the lights all go down at once and the invisible orchestra starts playing an unfamiliar composition. Roger says, "You know I mean it." 

With a shit eating grin, Freddie shrugs up his shoulders and points at his ears. "Can't hear you." He mouths. "It's starting." 

Roger hates how much he loves Freddie's joyous teasing nature. He gravitates towards it, like the moon to the earth. But Roger want's more than to stay on its correct orbit. He wants adventure and unedited Freddie. The Freddie that shrieks when he sees a spider. Or how he scoffs to the newspaper when an author publishes a particularly awful article. Or how he pushes Rogers glasses up Rogers nose before he could notice they were slipping. 

Even now, Freddie is caught off guard, stripped to his bare self. Roger is inclined to watch the ballet Freddie paid with their hard day of work, but he can't help but look at Freddie for another moment. 

The way his chest expands when the curtain parts and his eyes lit up when the first notes of the trumpets echo across the theater.

He catches Roger staring, of course, and tugs on his elbow to make him watch.

Roger grins, but he lets his eyes drift to the stage below obediently.

It isn't quite like watching Freddie, but Roger must admit that it is as extravagant and beautiful as Freddie had promised. The stage is full of beautifully dressed ballerinas, all in various pink colored costumes with large tutus. The backdrop of the stage is a large gradient orange, yellow, pink which resembles the sunset. The dancing is something Roger has never seen before. Everything is choreographed, every step, every breath to every twitch of a muscle. Everyone on the stage and in the band or above in the technician box, are part of one large overpowering monster. 

It pulls Roger into a lull and deep into the story. He forgets about the drugs, Richard, Denise and the support group and how tired he is.

While they watch a crazy-professor-like character oil up a robotic young women, Roger sinks lower to rest his head on Freddie's shoulder. Freddie acknowledges him by squeezing his knee, before he goes back to the ballet. 

Roger is bundled up in the warmth of his coat and with how close he is to Freddie, he struggles keep his eyes from drifting shut.

Every muscle in Rogers body is sore and strained, but in these comfortable chairs, leaning against Freddie, it all melts away together with the brass music that accompanies the dancers into their next steps. Roger thinks at any moment Freddie will nudge him awake, but he doesn't and before Roger knows it the world has faded into darkness and quiet. 

He doesn't know how much time has passed before a hand on his shoulder gives him a squeeze. 

Roger lifts his head from Freddie's shoulder to blink up blearily at his friend. His boyfriend.

"Fred?" He asks without actually asking anything.

Roger is still knuckling the mush of sleep out of his eyes when he realizes what woke him up was the thundering sound of applause. Freddie is smiling, thank God, but Roger feels an awful negative mood cast over him. 

His shoulders sag down. "I missed it." He realizes.

Looking around, the stage is empty aside from the bouquets of flowers thrown onto the planks. The band plays its final note before coming to a satisfying stop. The house lights turn back on and the visitors start buzzing up to leave. 

"Fuck. I can't believe I missed it. I missed the whole thing."

Still, Freddie is smiling. 

He gets to his feet first and offers Roger his hand with a wink. "Come with me, Darling. I think it's past your bedtime." 

"Don't say that Fred I— I fucking fell asleep."

"I know."

"You paid money for my ticket." Roger reminds him with a hiss. 

Freddie pulls him along towards the exist. Rogers legs are made of lead and jelly all at once and leans heavily onto Freddie to move along. Freddie, as always, doesn't comment or complain. 

"It is our money." Roger is reminded. Freddie holds him close by linking their arms again. "And I'm having a splendid evening. Have you?"

Yes, is Rogers first response, and Freddie can tell by his fascial expression that that is what Roger wants to say, but Roger huffs. 

"I wanted to see the ballet." 

"We can come again." Freddie grins. He pulls on their arms and Roger nearly stumbles. "That's the best news I could hear." 

Roger shakes his head. "You're so fucking unreal." He can't contain his own smile any longer when Freddie's nose brushes his cheek. 

"Who are you to talk?" 

★☆★

They stumble into the house with an almost drunken air about them. 

John and Brian have long gone to bed if the complete darkness can be trusted. 

Roger stumbles into Freddie on the way in. Freddie pointedly hushes him, but then manages to shut the door with a loud clatter that causes them both to jump.

"Do you know what hour it is, Mr Mercury?" Roger asks while poorly masking his smile.

Freddie remembers to lock the door, thank heavens, before he turns to Roger with a scowl. "Don't remind me, I don't want to think about how little sleep I'll be getting."

Roger smiles, finally. He relaxes his shoulders and allows his eyes to rave over Freddie and his own floral attire. 

"Something tells me you're not really listening to my struggles."

"It's gonna be weekend. You won't be struggling." Roger reminds him and finally allows himself to work his own coat off. "Don't try to trick me into feeling bad for you."

"Well how else could I get what I want?"

Roger pauses hanging his coat on the hanger and he turns to Freddie. "What is it you want?"

Freddie moves in a fast catlike grace that Roger admires enviously. He swiftly hangs his coat beside Rogers and swirls his way around him light on his feet, one finger crooked motioning towards himself, his other arm reaching out for Rogers.

"Your attention, Darling."

"Stop flattering me." Roger says and hopes his grin doesn't reflect well in the dim darkness of the hallway. 

Freddie must have seen it anyway, because when Roger catches up with him, Freddie holds both of Rogers hands into his and laces their fingers together until they are slotted into one. They stand still in each others shadow, Roger pauses to count his blessings for Freddie's warmth against him. 

"I don't suppose you'll let me stay with you for tonight?" Freddie pulls Roger closer in his arms until their chests are pressed flush against each other. 

Roger allows himself to be spun and held. Something warm is blooming in his fuzzy heart. 

"Wouldn't the others mind?" Roger asks tentatively, to which Freddie scoffs. 

"No. They would be happy to not have their sleep interrupted." 

Freddie is still pulling on Rogers arms, but Roger digs his heels onto the spot they are standing. He looks straight at Freddie, and can focus on him with assistance of his glasses, he takes note of his calm knowing expression. Roger wants to flick it away. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you know everything." Roger tells him. "There are things you don't know." 

_Oh a challenge_. Freddie's eyes lit up. "What things?" 

Without letting go of his hands, Roger takes the lead and spins them around so that he is the one dragging Freddie towards his bedroom. His closet, as the others refer to it. He nudges the door open with his hip and before he falls backwards onto the bed, he toes his converse off his feet. 

Freddie watches him work in quiet fascination. When Rogers shoes are off, Freddie kicks them under the bed before he closes the door. 

"What are you—?" 

Rogers sentence is cut off when he is pushed backwards onto the bed. With a laugh he claws his fingers into Freddie's shirt and drags him along on top of him.

"You bitch." Freddie grins as they land, their noses nearly touching.

He is also trying to work off his shoes without the use of his hands. Roger watches him struggle, with the little space in the room, which just barely fits the bed, it isn't easy to maneuver around with the door shut.

He watches long enough to hear the two soft thuds of Freddie's shoes hitting the floor and Freddie's face relaxing in success. Only then does Roger grab a hold of Freddie's shoulders to use for leverage in flipping him over and pinning him beneath him with his weight. 

"You thought you could overpower me in my own domain?" Roger asks in a low tone.

Freddie chuckles and stills perfectly when Roger rubs his foot up and down his leg in comfort. Warm hands land on Rogers hips, and he knows it accounts for his approval of his weight on top of Freddie. 

"You know what Roger, you're attractive even from this angle." 

"Charming your way out of here you think?" Roger asks, caging Freddie with his hands on either side of his head. Their lips are mere inches apart and he can feel Freddie's breath on his lips. Roger has never been more calm and flustered all at once, with his face heating up but his heart stays steady in confidence. 

He looks at Freddie a while longer, he takes in the bedazzlement of his eyes, the curve of his lips and the sharp angles of his cheekbones. 

Roger closes his eyes and rests his forehead onto Freddie's shoulder. 

Eventually Freddie realizes what's happening and wraps his arms instead around Rogers waist, keeping him close. 

It is already late, Freddie doesn't want to wake up the others, which means Roger gets to huddle up to him without breaking his neck over an excuse. Rogers bed creaks under their combined weight and if they don't open a window, the glass will fog from the heat. 

Roger rolls them over one more time, until they are both on their sides. 

Freddie keeps his arms around Roger and keeps him flush against him. Roger looks at him through his fringe, Freddie doesn't like the distraction and blows the hairs away with a huff. 

Roger says nothing and without a word starts stripping off his jeans. He kicks them off and to the foot of the bed, followed by his socks.

He looks at Freddie to do the same, but doubt crosses Freddie's face due to his laziness.

Roger gives him a prompting nudge, only then he lets go of Roger to remove both his trousers and his button-up. Roger lays back onto the pillows while Freddie folds his clothes into a neat pile. His muscles flex on the back and Roger aches to trace the lines of his shoulder blade and the nubs of his spine.

He himself is more comfortable dressed up, apart from his bare legs. 

When Freddie turns around, he is beautiful and unflawed in his naked glory. Dark hair runs from his chest down to his treasure trail to disappear in his underwear. Roger watches him crawl back in quiet admiration. 

He opens an arm, in which Freddie curls and rolls towards him. 

An exhaustion known to any retail worker pulls on their consciousness and Roger struggles to remain awake. The lazy haze in Freddie's eyes reflects the same. 

With Freddie's nose against his cheek and their bare legs entangled together, it is easy for Roger to find sleep. 

It takes some effort to pull himself out of that feeling. 

In the spur of the moment, Roger cups Freddie's cheeks and angles his chin up to press a long lingering kiss to his unbelievably soft lips. 

The magic that happens is nothing short of wonder and sparks sent down Rogers spine leave him sensitive for more touch, but as soon as it's started, it's over.

"Thank you." Roger sighs against Freddie's lips when they part to breathe. "For tonight. For everything."

He dares not to open his eyes, fearing that somehow, despite everything, that he still did something wrong. 

Only when long graceful fingers manage to pry his glasses off his face, does Roger blink his eyes open at his longingly beautiful boyfriend. To his utter relief, Freddie is smiling back ar him. After storing the glasses on the shelf above them, Freddie turns back to brush his fingers through Rogers mess of hair. 

Roger leans into the touch like a starved man. The memory of Freddie's lips are still heavy against his mouth. 

"Go to sleep." Freddie grins. "Go to sleep and I'm with you in the morning." 

Roger drapes his leg over Freddie's and sighs. This feels like they have done it a hundred times before, at least Roger is sure they will do it a hundred times again. Freddie is the one who leans their foreheads together and the whole night, their lips are a mere inch apart. 

★☆★

Roger wakes up with his cheek on top of Freddie's shoulder. It takes a moment for him to figure out how they are positioned. 

He lifts himself off the mattress and takes note of Freddie beneath him, laid out on his belly with his face turned to Roger. He is still fast asleep, breathing easily through his lax lips. Roger pulls his knees to his chest and dares carefully to stroke his thumb over Freddie's cheek. 

Seconds later an obnoxious ringing sound echoes through the house. 

It is the telephone in the living room. While Roger enjoys sitting close to Freddie with his cold feet underneath the sheets, he doesn't want to wake up the rest of he house.

Roger steps over Freddie's sleeping form and sneaks out of the bed to the living room. 

Hot on his bare heels, follow two cats Roger doesn't pay attention to in his dash for the phone before it reaches everyone else. 

He answers it hurriedly, bleary eyed and still out of breath. 

"Hello?" 

"Hello—? Hello Roger is this you?" 

Roger blinks rapidly, instantly recognizing the low rumble of Crystals voice. "Chris? Yes this is me. I thought our next call was scheduled for Tuesday, I didn't know we—"

"I've been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday." 

"I'm sorry. Chris, I'm sorry." There is an awful desperation in Crystals voice. Rogers stomach drops. He thinks his friend might have relapsed or gotten himself kicked out of the ward after promising he'd get better.!Roger braces himself against the wall. "What's wrong, Chris?" 

Rogers heart beats rapidly hearing Crystal take a shuddering breath. 

"He came here." 

"He— he?" Roger grips the phone hard. His knuckles turn white in near seconds. "He was there. He saw you? Did he do anything to you?" 

"He came for a drug deal, because Larry is out of the game right now. He didn't know who I was, but he showed me a picture of you and told me I'd get a reward if I knew anything about where you were." 

Crystal sighs. The phone rustles on the other end. 

"I told him you were transferred to a facility in Leeds. He believed me... Rog are you still there?"

"Did he get a good look of your face?" Roger gulps. "Did he?"

"I needed to get him on the wrong trail to buy you some time. Roger, they are looking for you and they are offering a lot of money to people who know something. You need to know that you are at risk." 

Roger looks up at the ceiling and has to blink rapidly to keep the tears from welling up. 

"I didn't want you to get tangled up in this, Chris." He sniffles. He hopes Crystal can't tell he is crying. "I'm sorry." 

"No, _I'm_ sorry. I wish I had killed the bastard." 

A chuckle is choked up involuntarily. Roger wipes his nose with his sleeve. "So to Leeds you said?" 

"He's off to Leeds. Or someone is. It'll keep him from sniffing around London for a little while, but it won't hold him off forever." Crystal exhales. Roger closes his eyes and can almost imagine standing next to him in his old room at the rehab ward. "We have little time to come up with a plan for you." 

"And for you." Roger says.

★☆★  
_  
"What do you think of this?"_

_"Do you even know what you are pointing at?" Brian asks pointedly._

_Freddie narrows his eyes while he lowers his hand. "No need to be nasty, at least I'm making suggestions."_

_"I doubt Roger would want to learn how to play the double contrabass flute."_

_The two continue to throw jabs at each other, while John lingers somewhat in the back to keep an eye on the door and salesman sitting perched in his high chair to make sure they aren't touching anything they shouldn't._

_"If only there was someone who knew what Roger wanted to play." John says, mostly to himself._

_Freddie picks it up anyway and turns to him. "What was that, John?"_

_Sighing, John steps away from the wall. "Shouldn't Roger be the one picking the instrument he wants to play?"_

_"That would ruin the surprise element."_

_"Yeah well, it's a big financial decision to get an instrument, so maybe it shouldn't have a surprise element."_

_Brian and Freddie meet eyes and barely refrain from rolling their eyes at John, which John doesn't think he deserves for carrying the brains of the relationship. After an intense eye conversation, Brian turns to him as the spokesperson._

_"I think we know quite well what Roger would like."_

_"Like what?" John crosses his arms and waits. Brian looks around the room, a little frantic in search of a quick suggestion._

_Freddie, again, beats him to it and gestures at a the trumpets lining the shelves._

_"Maybe he's a blower!"_

_"Don't call him that." John tells him. He's not very comfortable teasing Roger in the way Freddie does. Besides, he doesn't see Roger huffing his way against a trumpet or any wind instrument for that matter. "I'm not sure if that's for him."_

_"I agree. Maybe we can get him a guitar." Brian says and finally stops restraining himself from going over to the guitar section in the corner._

_Freddie sends him a bored look. "We don't need a third guitarist in the house."_

_"I played bass, not guitar." John says. "It's very different."_

_"It's strings." Freddie waves away and effectively ignores the violin standing in front of him._

_John watches them wander around the second hand store with very little patience. When he suggested getting Roger an instrument for his birthday he meant getting something _with_ him, not just for him. Somehow it feels like infantilizing him. _

_His watch reads 6:47, which means Roger is almost done with his support group._

_"I think maybe we should go, it's getting late." John suggests, but neither of his boyfriends deem it reason enough to turn around and listen to him. John narrows his eyes and marches around the drumkit that stands in the middle of the room._

_This is where John makes a critical mistake._

_In his platform heels, he stumbles over the metal pool that supports the cymbals and he trips and kicks accidentally through the skin of the base drum when he tries not to face plant._

_Freddie's hands are on him in an instance, but to Johns utter mortification, the damages had already been done._

_"Oh God! John you klutz."_

_He is pulled back onto his feet by Freddie and soon followed by Brian. Johns face heats up with white hot shame when he feels the presence of the store owner right behind him and his two boyfriends go instantly silent._

_"Gentlemen, I see you that you have made your decision."_

_John looks up at Freddie with wide frantic eyes, who then looks at Brian with the exact same expression._

_Brian clears his throat, "Uh, how much would the drumset be?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. So. Last chapter not as many comments as before. Is everything okay? What are we thinking?


	29. Of Warning and Realizing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger is isolated in their new apartment. Brian watches him live as a caged animal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hit 200.000 words!!!!! Omg!!! Thank you everyone for reading and being here. This has been fucking amazing and I am so terribly grateful. Thank you. Truly.
> 
> And this is a 8500 long chapter goddamn

It isn't as much a shock as it is a reality check.

When they first began visiting Roger at the ward after the incident of Richard trying to capture him, they had taken the most precautions they could have. This averaged between covering their faces in public, parking their car further from their destination, taking various routes to routine places such as work or their home or the hospital. But they also sold their cars and changed their homes to disappear off the radar.

With Roger back home they and Richard, the drugs, the gang further in the back of their minds, they had continued onwards without the constant itching fear factor that has now returned in full force.

At least for Brian it has. The emotions within the household are mixed. 

Freddie sends Brian a panicked look from the kitchen where he is frantically making them tea. That's typically Freddie. When his mind is racing he needs to get busy, he needs to feel useful and be distracted. 

So when the news about the bounty on Rogers head had broken, Freddie altered between cleaning Rogers glasses, rearranging the cupboards above the sink and making them beverages. 

Brian tries for a smile, but his face doesn't manage to fake what his brain won't connect to and it turns into a flat look, which gives Freddie little to no comfort as he goes back to his tea-making. Murmuring _fuck_ s and _oh God_ 's under his breath. 

Where Brian is seated on the carpeted floor, he has the perfect view of John across the coffee table that parts them.

John is a different creature than Freddie. John has in the last couple of hours, not said a single word related to the news or any distress. But there is a hardness in his eyes. A cold blooded wall between his thoughts and his calm facial expression that at its worst can be described as one of a serial killer, and at best considered 'on edge'. 

It makes for a strange contrast as to how he is cradling Rogers head in his lap and he threads his long fingers through the tresses of Rogers blond hair. 

His languid stroking movement of his hand is hypnotizing and only ties into the horror movie energy John is radiating. 

"I just didn't think he would do that." Freddie says from behind them. "It's— he thinks he loves you, doesn't he? Then he comes out with a dead or alive wanted poster. He is sick." 

Roger barely reacts to the onslaught. He stiffens some at the raised voice, but nobody would notice had they not been looking as intently as Brian was. 

The most accurate way to describe Rogers reaction to the news was not hysteria or anger or fear, but numbness.

Where he is with his head in Johns lap and his legs stretched out on the couch and stares off into space, has been his position since they found him off the phone with his friend in the hospital. 

"And you know what?" Freddie says, spinning around too fast and spilling tea all over the floor. "The balls on this man to show up there again! After Dominique saw his face. The arrogant little prick." 

"How's the tea coming?" John asks without looking away from the back of Rogers head.

Brian feels like he is watching a scene in a movie where two actors got a different script. 

Freddie scoffs and concentrated back on the tea that didn't get wasted. 

"That son of a bitch got another thing coming if he thinks he can get away with showing pictures of Roger to junkies hoping someone will recognize him and know where he is. He thinks we wouldn't find out? Well he's got another thing coming, and he'll find out when he is in Leeds." He kicks the cupboard shut before he marches over to the living room with a trey. 

Brian watches him pour the tea in the four cups and ready them each individually the way they all like it. 

Johns eyes are trained on Roger, while misty blue eyes follow Freddie around the room. 

Freddie takes his own cup after ridding it off the bag and sits down on the other end of the couch to not disturb the peace John has created over Roger. He sits with his legs crossed. Face pinched and red with mixed anger and fear. "You don't suppose he's got a picture of me or John and Bri, do you?" 

Roger blinks up at him and rids his eyes from the tears threatening to fall again. 

He clears his throat and adds in a small voice. "Chris didn't mention that." 

He sounds nothing like Roger, Brian thinks, and reaches for his own cup of steaming tea when neither Roger or John makes an attempt to get their own. 

"He knew where our house was. If that car was really Andrews."

"Andrei." Roger murmurs.

"Right sorry, Andrei's." Brian continues, "He found out what hospital Roger was in, so he knew two very important details. I wouldn't be surprised if he would have access to our names and somehow our pictures." 

"I still don't understand how he knew where we lived in the first place. Roger didn't come with us until after I brought him to the hospital." Freddie huffs into his cup. 

"Did he follow us to the hospital you think? Or when we left the hospital?"

"No because why wait literal months until Roger is in the rehab ward to strike if they knew where Roger was when he first left? And then now they lost track again." 

Brian stops to sip his tea and relish in burning his tongue. 

The situation is horrifying and Brians heart is beating much faster than it has the right to. He looks at Roger, who has yet to react to their contemplating. John just looks more ready to murder than before with his straight jaw and stiff neck. 

They know Andreis car was outside their apartment once. They know Richard found out Roger was in the hospital. They know Richard lost track after that and is now taking rewards to get Roger back. 

"When Andrei found out where we lived, it was weeks into Roger being with us. And when he drove by, he never actually tried anything. This seems so strange to me." Brian starts and talks as he thinks. "He knew we were all on that address, or at least one of us. He knew somehow that we lived there and that we were connected to Roger, but he never did anything. Almost like he came by and didn't find what he was looking for."

"Maybe he was looking for Roger and didn't see him, because those were the weeks Roger was isolated inside. After the groceries incident Roger didn't even walk with the cats anymore. Maybe Richard found out some information about one of us and asked his minions to see if there was a sign of Roger and there wasn't, because Roger was inside." 

Brian raises his eyebrows at Freddie. "That sounds plausible." He hums into his tea. "And they picked up trail somehow at the hospital again, but then lost it after Roger left. How do you suppose that happened."

They all turn to Roger. All except John. 

Freddie lowers his cup and leans into Rogers eye field. "Roger, darling?" He asks in a kind high pitched tone he might use on a frightened stray cat. "Do you know how Richard could have gotten access to such information?" 

Roger is taken by the way Johns hair grooming has somehow turned aggressive and frowns at the other man, until John realizes what he is doing and pauses. 

In that pause, Roger reaches around himself to hold Johns wrist in his hand and keep it still on top of his head before he addresses Freddie.

"He knows people. The crew is a large network of people." 

"He could have gotten someone to investigate you... Or me for that matter." Freddie says mostly to Roger, but then turns to Brian. "A girl there recognized me." And he turns back to Roger with wide eyes. "She saw me and knew who I was when I wanted to help you get to the hospital when I drove to Richards apartment with Bri. You were bleeding and she told me she tried to get you healthy but—" 

"Imogen." Roger interrupts him. "Her name is Imogen and I had told her who you were. My therapist and my friend who was helping me get rid of the drugs."

"But she wouldn't tell Richard, right? She is your friend." 

Rogers eyes drop to the floor even at the hopeful edge of Freddie's voice. Brians stomach drops too. "That's not a matter of what she would do. It's what she _had_ to. She was there when you took me. Of course he'd ask her to give details on you."

"Fuck. And she had seen my face clearly and you told her my name. If Richard knew I was a therapist, knew my name and could have have someone look through pictures of Freddie's, I'd be the one he traced down." 

There's a rush of energy in the room. Roger picks up on it and sits upright with a hand still on Johns thigh. "Imogen never would have wanted to tell him. He must have forced her."

"I am not blaming her."

"Good. Because he controls every aspect of her life. The clothes on her back, the mattress on which she sleeps, the food she eats, the roof over her head— she would never know the consequences." 

"I know—"

"And Richard would do anything, _anything_ within his power to get me back. Her life was at stake for this. Everyone's fucking life is at stake." 

Alarmed, Freddie makes a waving gesture with his hands. "Roger, you need to calm down."

"No! No nobody gets it. Nobody understand because he wants me so bad he would go through millions of records, thousands of Freddie's, hundreds of hospitals, countless of junkies to get me. And I'm terrified because there's too many casualties along the way. I don't know what to do, you, John, Brian, Imogen, Crystal—" Roger cuts himself off to heave. He is out of breath and his cheeks are blotched with emotions. He covers his face when he must feel the heat rising. "He's going to get Crystal. He's going to hurt him because of me when he finds out Chris lied. It's all because of me that everyone gets fucked over. I can't go on like this, putting everything at risk. I can't." 

Roger has no more tears left to cry. His eyes flicker up at the ceiling when suddenly John engulfs him in a bone crushing hug. Instantly Rogers lips clatter shut and his posture crumbles. 

John holds him close again his chest and sways him in his arms for as much as that is possible.

His voice is so low Brian struggles to hear him. "The only one to blame is Richard." 

Roger sniffles soundly and exhales, like he is tired of explaining.

"I know I didn't do it. I know. But without me everything would have been okay. I don't know what I did to deserve this. Why can't he just let go?" 

"I don't know. I—" Johns calm facade is broken as he shudders physically. "I don't know. I wish I had more for you." 

"He robs me of everything that I love and I can't stand it. I can't be helpless for the rest of my stupid life." 

Johns hand tangles back into Rogers hair and they hug. Brian has never seen a hug so right that it caused a lump to form in his own throat. On the other end of the couch he sees Freddie brushing away a tear from the corner of his eye. 

A silence falls over the room while Brians heart is thundering with the many thoughts orbiting his head. 

The things unknown are always the scariest, he muses as he gets up to put his cup down and reach around the piano to grab his own beloved instrument, which he made with his father many moons ago. He puts her in the amp, which he sets on the most quiet setting he'a got. This time with his guitar in his lap, he sits down on the same spot.

Freddie is listlessly drinking the remainder of his tea, while John is still the last thing between Roger and the brink of disaster. 

Brians fingers immediately strum into an easy saddened tune. 

Only Freddie's eyes move over to him and Brian almost fears being told off, until Freddie sends him a half smile of approval. 

However much time later, John begins to relax somewhat and brings Roger down to the couch so they can each lay more comfortably with Roger draped half on top of John.

And the room stays silent aside from Brians music dancing from the tips of his fingers to the amplifier in the corner of the room. 

He himself gets lost in the lure of the music. 

What gets him out and to look up is the tired twinkle of a pair of blue eyes peering straight at him. 

Brian tries for a smile at Roger, who's face is half hidden in Johns shoulder. 

Whatever many things Roger is going through in his head, is set aside long enough to send Brian a loving smile and lazy blink, one that said more than many poems ever could. 

★☆★

Brian comes back from walking the cats and enters the living room just as Roger puts the phone back on the hook.

Brian holds his breath to see in what mood the call has put Roger in. 

The last week has been nothing short of tension in the flat. Brian is on edge even seeing Roger there, they're alone during the day with John and Freddie at their jobs and Brian feels a lot less equipped to deal with Rogers bursts of emotions. Recovery plan or not. 

"So," Brian clears his throat, his hand still on the doorknob as he levels Rogers. "How did it go?" 

He knows they already canceled all his support group sessions for the foreseeing future, which Brian hopes doesn't have too many consequences on Rogers wellbeing. Freddie didn't seem all too happy with it, but there was a consensus that Roger shouldn't go outside. Especially not routinely. 

The cats rush around the furniture to get to Roger and circle his ankles and paw at his legs to be carried.

"That was Dominique." Brian misses Rogers expression when he ducks down to squish them in his arms. 

All Brian knows about Dominique is that she saved Rogers life and that John is scared shitless by her, which is either a big pro or a huge con. 

Brian lets out an accidentally uneasy hum. "Oh, and what did she say?"

"It's good news actually, she is working on transferring Crystal." 

Then when he finally has two armfuls of cats, Roger shakes his hair out of his face, giving Brian access to a smile he'd missed in the last week. Brian sighs in relief and actually lets go of the door now.

He steps closer to run his hand through Oscars hair as an excuse to be closer to Roger. 

He still isn't exactly used to the idea of having Roger as his boyfriend, only when Roger turns his face up in expectation of a kiss, does Brian lean in to offer just that. 

He allows their lips to linger for a short moment and he relishes in the soft touch of Rogers skin before he pulls back.

"Where is she transferring him to?" 

"To Scotland." Roger sighs, struggling somewhat with the heavy and squirming cats in his arms. 

Brian decides to move them to the balcony, he nudges Roger to the door and opens it to let the cold breeze in. Roger steps out first and drops the pool of cats in his lap once he has huffed his way into the lawn chair. Brian sits down beside him, they're both bare footed and Roger is in Johns pajamas. It used to be too big in him, Brian remembers vividly, seeing bones and sickly pale skin stick out of the clothing, but now Roger is strong and fills it out healthily. 

Despite the cats, Brian wriggles his hand between to get to Rogers and clasp their palms together.

He just wants to hold him. It's a constant pull he feels. An immediate need to reach out and touch Roger. It's tricky to remember that he _can_. Roger turns to him and quirks a half smile, which is only somewhat sad. One can't be fully sad with a post-winter breeze in their hair and the beams of the sun on their face. 

"Do you suppose you'll see him before he goes up north?" Brian asks politely. 

Roger knows Brians reservedness about Crystal. Something in the twinkle of his eye, Brian can tell he doesn't know half of it .

"Shouldn't go outside. I don't think it's safe." 

"You can always keep contact through calls and letters." 

Rogers face sobers up and he quickly turns back to the cats and gives Tiffany, who is huddled in the crook of his elbow a backrub. "I suppose so, yes. Not the same as weekly visits, but we have to be safe first."

Brian nods. 

Somewhere along the week Freddie and Brian had somewhat of a fallout over Rogers self imposed house arrest. 

Freddie seems certain that having Roger inside all day would only drive him insane. He had even argued that most people don't know the Bull Crew or Rogers face, so it wouldn't make sense to keep him inside all day.

Brian couldn't have disagreed more, as it was not worth the risk. He had the sneaking suspicion Freddie just didn't want to run the stall alone if he instead could have Roger by his side. The way Brian had pointed that out to Freddie wasn't too tactical, according to the disapproving scowl on Johns pinched face. 

The conversation only left more tension in the room and Roger more on edge. 

"I think that in the long run, you can't stay inside forever."

Roger glances sideways at him. "Might have to fake my own death." 

"I wish we had the luxury of eliminating that as an option." Brian murmurs. He closes his eyes to shut out the glare of the sun. In his hand, he squeezes Rogers to reassure him. "We'll think of something, okay?"

Roger hums but still squeezes Brians hand back. 

A moment of silence passes between them, but it's short-lived. Rogers breath hitches as he sighs. "If I stay inside I'll go mad. If I go outside I'll go mad." He concludes.

Brian nods, in case Roger is looking at his direction. He knows this isn't easy, but the last thing he wants is for something to happen to Roger after everything they have done. He swallows thickly. 

"Stay inside until things have cleared. Please." 

"He never gives up. He'll never give up." Roger clutches his hand harder than before and Brian feels sick to his stomach at the defeat in his tone.

★☆★

Brian has never liked drastic steps as much as the next person. Even John is apprehensive to change of routine.

But in this, all three of them seem to be in the same line, which one might call a miracle.

"Darling? Can we have a chat?" 

It is a conversation long overdue and Brian can't quite understand why it took so long to raise the issue.

He does know why they decided it had been long enough. The long hours spend inside their little apartment have driven Roger up the wall and further into their touch. Each night one of them spends it together with Roger in his room.

It has been Brians turn with him las night, and his back still twinges from the cheap uncomfortable sine mattress. 

When he raised the issue to the others, they had come to a mutual understanding.

"What is this about?" Roger asks with an ever growing frown. 

Freddie grins and offers Roger his hands to pull him up to his feet from where he'd been lounging in front of the television all day. Roger, trusting and curious, takes Freddie's hands and allows himself to be led into the hallway, with John holding the door open.

Roger looks back at John and Brian, eyes twinkling in excitement. "Do you know what this is about?"

Brian bites his lip to keep himself from smiling. Johns poker face is much more impressive.

Their combined silence sends Rogers eyes to look between them frantically.

"So you won't tell me?"

"Not a word." John says as they come to a halt in front of Rogers bedroom door and their own. Freddie has his back turned to the doors and his hand on the knob.

Roger calms down some and calculates in his mind what this might lead to.

"You see, now that we are together, we thought you might want to sleep in bed with us from now on." 

Brian glances sideways just in time to see Rogers eyes bulging out his skull. 

"You mean that?" He stammers in a genuinely confused manner. 

Brian thinks this might not be a good idea, bur before he can voice those doubts Johns arm wraps around his waist and squeezes their hips together like they are a single creature. Brian is grateful for the support, after the surgery he is still weakened. He too wraps an arm around John.

"We would never suggest such a thing as a joke, Rog." Freddie assures Roger. "In fact, we've all been sharing your uncomfortable bed for a while now and nobody likes being separated from you, or the others. If you want it, we want it too." 

Roger turns to Brian and John and without withholding any of the excitement radiating off himself he asks, "And you two think the same?" 

"Yes we do." John says. "We talked about it before. You're a missing piece." 

"We need you to feel complete. It would mean the world to us if you would slot in with us in this way too. In every way." Brian adds because he can and because he means it. 

His words are like magic and Roger allows himself to be fully excited about the offer.

He first jumps John and Brian, wraps his arms around their necks and holds them and kisses their cheeks, leaving wet patches across their skin. Brian laughs, it reminds him of the hyperactive puppy his neighbor used to have.

Then Roger turns to Freddie, who'd been waiting with open arms and smacks his lips against his own. 

Entangled in a short but passionate kiss, Freddie eventually remembers something and pulls back to gasp, "Oh wait! That isn't all." 

Roger is abruptly left to stand on his own while Freddie turns around to open their bedroom door with an excited exclaim for Roger to follow him in. Without hesitating, Roger follows behind him with a curious frown. 

"I've seen your bedroom before and the bed looks comfy, so— Oh." 

John and Brian have to stop walking when Roger stops abruptly in the hallway. The two boyfriends share a warm smile, the corners of Johns eyes wrinkle with joy when Roger halts to blink rapidly at the objects in the middle of the room.

"Is this a joke? This isn't a joke. Fuck I know, but this cannot be real? How can you be real?"

"Do you like it?" Freddie asks.

Roger nods rapidly. His head bobbing with uncontainable enthusiasm. "Yes. Oh God! A drumset? I can bang on drums all day." 

Freddie is smiling about as hard as Roger is. He nods along and clasps his hands together on his chest. "We thought it might suit you, with the pent up emotions and the frustration of being inside. We wanted to safe it for your birthday, but after consideration this seemed like a better time."

"I love it." Roger presses. He turns around to repeat the same to Brian and John. "I love it. And I don't have the words to say how much I appreciate this." 

"We know." John says earnestly. 

"And you can hardly live with us without learning an instrument." Brian nudges in teasingly. 

Roger looks flustered with emotions. He turns back to Freddie. "Where the hell can we set this up? I don't think there's much space in the living room."

"Seems like it worked out well that you want to sleep with us from now on." Freddie smirks and when Roger doesn't get it immediately he adds, "We'll transform your bedroom into your drum room. If we just take out the bed that'll make enough space."

Rogers jaw nearly hits the floor. His cheeks redden with joy. "You really thought of everything."

"Yes we did." 

"Thank you." Roger sighs and touches his face with his hands like one might feel for a child's temperature. "I am overwhelmed— in a good way. This was a lot of good in a really shitty few weeks." 

When Roger gets overwhelmed the recovery plan states that they should be there for him while he winds doen so he doesn't crash. 

Freddie wraps an arm around Rogers shoulder and pulls him in for a peck on the lips.

Brian doesn't know when Roger and Freddie began the more intimate part of their relationship, but it stirs a warm blooming in his chest when he witnesses it. By the squeeze on his hip, John would agree.

"If we start dismantling your bed, we can out up your drums after dinner."

"You think we can do all that in one day?" Roger asks Freddie, who then turns to John. 

"Of course! We've got Mr First Class Engineer amongst ourselves. He'll get the job done in absolutely no time."

"Electrical engineering." John corrects him fondly. Brian as well as the others in the room know John would never do less than his utter best to give Roger the instrument he's been yearning to learn since leaving the drug dependency ward. 

Freddie waves John off. "Technicalities."

With that said, Roger stays inside. They don't know how long his self isolation will have to last, but their only certainty is uncertainty. Giving Roger a drumset proofs over the next few weeks only as an asset to his mindset and survival during these trying, boring and equally stressful times. Having Roger in bed with them every evening gives all four of them something to look forward to the entire day, which keeps them all off the ledge. 

During the evenings Roger has dreams. He squirms and he kicks and he grumbles in his sleep. Brian tries not to listen and he learns that if he finds Rogers hand on the bed and gives it a loving squeeze, Roger squeezes him back. They can both rest assured then, until the next memory sends Roger into a fit.

★☆★

"I was bored today." 

Brian chuckles at Rogers yawned out complaint from where he is standing by the foot of the bed. Brian is on the mattress with Freddie, they are each in their pajamas and waiting for the other two to join them. 

"Tomorrow I'll spend the day with you." Brian promises Rogers huffs with another broad smile.

He'd been in the hospital all day getting tested and prodded at to make sure everything is well. It appears to be that his body is adjusting well without the gallbladder and that Brian isn't in need of any medication anymore. He feels bad for the immense relief he gets now that all alluring substances are out of Rogers potential grasp. No incidents have happened since the rehab ward, but with his constant isolation and his boredom, Roger could be having serious cravings. 

John wraps his arms around Rogers waist. He stands behind him and presses his bare chest against Rogers back. "You want to go for a cuddle?" 

Roger leans into the touch like a cat. His frown is turned upside down by the easy embrace. 

They are a sight to behold together. With Rogers hands folded over Johns toned arms and their lean bodies pressed together into one fluid curve. Where John is bare, Roger wears a long sleep shirt with his hair tousled in a mess over his shoulder. Brians breath is caught in his throat and his mouth goes dry when under sheets, Freddie's heavy hand lands on his thigh and gives him a squeeze. 

"They're gorgeous like that, aren't they?" Freddie asks in a low tempting tone.

John strains his neck to hear what is being said on the bed. When he realizes what was said, his face softens but his pupils darken. 

Roger blinks heavily before he glances sideways at John. "What did he say?" 

As the only person in the room who's left out of the sudden tension that's building mainly because Freddie is rubbing teasingly between Brians sensitive inner thighs and John tightens his arms around Roger, Roger turns giddy with curiosity. 

They have withdrawn from sex altogether since Roger began sharing their bed. The consequence of that is that Brian is hardening only moments later.

"He said that we look gorgeous like this." John hums with his lip brushing the pink shelf of Rogers ear. Rogers eyes are hooded with trust. He swallows thickly. "Wouldn't be able to disagree."

"Shut up." 

Roger is the one to press their aching lips against each other. Brian isn't sure whether to watch or look away, but it's the filthiest kiss he's ever witnessed.

Roger has his face slightly tilted to meet Johns. Their tongues slide together in a hot battle for dominance. Roger is moaning and sighing, while John grows frustrated with need and he squeezes Rogers hips under his hands. Roger smiles at the touch and in his moment of weakness, John pushes his tongue past Rogers gorgeous slick lips. 

Brian watches. He watches and suddenly he realizes he's rocking back against Freddie's palm like a mindless hormonal teenager. 

Not getting off in the past week and more has put them all on edge. 

He whispers Freddie's name. Freddie is plastered against his side instantly, leaving sloppy kisses down Brians neck to his shoulder while he fondles him through his boxers. 

He could cum like this. From watching John devour Roger and him grinding into Freddie's hand. 

But John pulls back from Rogers lips with a prominent gasp, and he's chuckling, pink in the face with joy. But he stops. He puts Roger at an arms length and pulls Freddie out of his act with a squeeze of his foot. 

Freddie blinks and pulls away. Suddenly they are all aware of the situation and not one of them manages to cool their faces down in time. 

"We need to talk about this." John says while still gaping for air. "Roger— you've never been with us before. Like that."

"I know." Roger says, equally out of breath. 

"Right. Is this what you want? Are you okay?" 

Freddie sits upright and the blanket pools around his waist, nearly exposing both his and Brians erection. "Wait, let's be more clear. What is it you want to do tonight? What are your boundaries?" 

They have put him on the spot, Brian realizes. He tries to calm down enough to stop the buzzing of his blood under his skin. 

Roger is standing there, with Johns hand on his hip, ruffled up and pink faced.

He shrugs somewhat helplessly. "I don't know. What are the options?"

"Anything, Darling. We don't really have limits to this sort of thing. We just want you to feel comfortable."

"Oh." Rogers cheeks redden some more, but in a good way. Brians body shivers in exhilaration. "What would you usually do, in a moment like this? If I weren't here."

"Well, you _are_ here." John murmurs and plasters himself against Rogers side once more to nose at his neck. "But I saw Freddie working Brian up under the sheets, Brian didn't look like he would last very long."

"Oh." 

"Yes," John smirks when he meets Brians eye. Brian stills and realizes Freddie's hand is still there. And he still hasn't gotten soft either. "I'd love to see Freddie get Brian off. After the long day he's had in the hospital he deserves a little treat doesn't he?" 

"And what about you? And Fred?" 

"Maybe I'll make Brian fuck Freddie when he is all spent and shivering. Or make Freddie fuck himself on a dildo. I haven't decided yet, maybe he won't even last long enough." 

Roger is obviously tenting in his underwear. He seems enchanted by the low purr of Johns voice. 

"And you?"

"I don't need to get off today." John whispers. "I want to focus on my boyfriends, nothing else gives me more pleasure." 

Johns arm is right around Roger again and his fingers are teasing up and down the bone if his hip. Roger lets him, eyes dazed and warm with arousal. Brian hums when Freddie gives him an absentminded squeeze. 

"And what do you want to do, Rog? Anything you want." 

Roger swallows thickly. His eyes meet Brians across the bed. Brian tries to keep his gaze even when Freddie finds a rhythm again stimulating his bulge through his underwear. A moan forces its way out of Brians throat and his legs fall open for Freddie's welcoming touches. 

"I— can I watch? Just watch for now?" Roger stammers. He doesn't look away from Brian and Freddie, even when he's obviously addressing John.

"Anything you want Rog. Is this okay? How I'm touching you?" He asks tentatively.

Roger nods. Johns hands have not traveled beneath his waistline and he hasn't touched any of Rogers private parts yet, or rubbed himself against Rogers backside in the way he would have done had Roger been Freddie or Brian.

"This is okay. I just want to watch, maybe next time I'll feel different." Roger promises. "I'll try."

Sometimes it's so easy to forget what Roger had gone through and that boundaries hadn't existed in his previous life, at least Brian is glad John and Freddie know exactly what to say in situations such as this to remember Roger he can be at ease with them. 

"There's no hurry. We have our entire lives together." John promises back. He plants a kiss at the back of Rogers neck and whispers, "You can touch yourself. Through your underwear, or underneath a blanket, or naked. You can watch them and touch yourself if you want to." 

Roger glances back at him. He seems to desperately need to touch himself. "Wouldn't that be weird?"

"Would you mind us looking?" John asks. "Enjoy you pleasuring yourself while watching these two rub each other off?"

"I wouldn't mind." Roger says.

He looks back at Brian, who's yet to stop making throaty moans at every skillful squeeze and rubbing on his cock. 

Brian wouldn't mind seeing Roger lost in pleasure himself. 

Before Brian can voice such a thought, Freddie skillfully slips his hand into Brians underwear and takes his hardness into his hands. He pulls on Brians rock hard direction once, then twice, Brian groans at the slow drag of the movement and rocks himself up into Freddie's hand. 

"More."

"Pull down the sheets and his underwear so we can see." John orders Freddie. 

Brian is pliant under Freddie's tender touch. The sheets are flipped back and his underwear pulled down to his ankles until he can kick them off. Rogers eyes are zeroed in on the hardness between Brians legs. Freddie scoots him up against the headboard and while trailing his fingers down his treasure trail to find his cock again, he presses soft kisses to Brians shoulder. 

"Is everyone just going to watch?" Brian murmurs half out of breath. 

Freddie chuckles and before he wraps his hand around his cock he spits into his hand to slick up his palm.

John chuckles and nuzzles Rogers neck, peppering his skin with kisses until his eyes start to flutter. "Brian, are you getting shy now?" 

"No." Brian grunts but he knows his cheeks are heating up. 

Roger chuckles along with John. His hooded eyes stay focused on the slow up and down movement of Freddie's hand on his cock. "Are you going to keep teasing him?"

"He likes it. He likes it that we watch. He likes it when I tease him." 

"It's true." Freddie grins against Brians shoulder and runs his saliva slick hand up and down Brians hardness. "He loves being toyed with. Who doesn't?" Brian hums appreciatively at the touch, but his eyes are on Roger, who breathes heavily through the gap of his lips and pulls his underwear down just low enough to pull his cock out to stroke it.

Brian had feared Roger might have been too shy or uncomfortable around him, but that isn't the case at all.

He works his hand down his cock like he's done it in front of them many times before.

And he's beautiful, Brian swallows thickly, his cheeks are a red and puffy with arousal and his skin is glistening with sweat. Brian had never really considered a cock to be pretty before meeting his boyfriends, but like Freddie's and Johns, Roger is well groomed and nicely sized. He strokes himself to complete hardness with one hand and fondles his balls with the other. 

John is still plastered to Rogers side, like Freddie he is kissing down the length of Rogers neck. Roger tilts his neck further with a quiet sigh as if to ask for more.

Brian moans at the sight of them and Freddie decides in that moment to match Rogers pace to jerk Brian off. 

The sudden change sets fire to Brians belly and his skin prickles with heat.

It feels good, so good he struggles keeping his eyes open, but he refuses to look away from Roger rubbing himself to his relief, being stimulated by John suckling lovebites on his exposed skin. It is an alluring sight. Brian is nearly breathless with it and Freddie takes advantage of his moment of weakness and wraps his leg over Brians. 

Brian grunts through the steady jerking of Freddie's hand, while Freddie uses Brians thigh to grind his cock against. 

John trails his hands down Rogers sides and Roger shivers, until John rests his hands on Rogers hips. 

"Is this okay?" 

"It's fine. It's good." Roger chuckles breathlessly. He continues to work on his cock, which is drooling precum at the head. "I'm enjoying myself." 

"You should be. We're so happy to have you here." 

Johns lips linger on Rogers pulse point. Roger moans and visibly tightens his hand around himself. "Fuck— Deacky."

"I know. Keep touching yourself like that. Fucking hell I might cum untouched like this. All because of you three." He whispers. The rasp of his voice carries across the ned and Brians hips tilt subconsciously into Freddie's touch. As hypnotizing as the rhythm of Rogers jerking is, Brian still feels desperate with the need to release his load. He's never been harder in his life. It makes it hard to think coherently, with Freddie rolling his hips against him, feeling his hardness against his thigh.

"Look at them. They're like savages." John continues to whisper into Rogers ear. "They're like cavemen aren't they? Just because they haven't gotten off in a few days. Just because they get to see you touch your pretty cocks. I tell you, Brian is yearning to suck you dry if you let him. He's so desperate for you. Same goes for Freddie. What he wouldn't do to be bend over by you." John chuckles and flicks his tongue against the inner shell of Rogers ear. Roger gasps. "Thank you for letting us be with you like this. You're unreal." 

"Shut up or I'm gonna cum." Roger comments and gives John a distracting nudge. 

John takes no offense and squeezes Roger closer against himself. "Are you close, Rog?" 

"Yes. I am."

"Brian is too." John says. "Take a good look at him and Fred before you cum. You've done that to them. You got them there."

Roger bites his lip to stifle a moan. Brian wishes he wouldn't, and neither does Freddie, if the cursing under his breath has anything to do with it. The sound of Rogers pleasure nearly does send Brian over the edge.

He has been so entranced with Roger that he's forgotten all about his own pleasure, but as soon as his mind returns to his body he realizes how close he is.

His toes have curled into the bedding like it is the last thing keeping him from tumbling over the edge. 

Freddie's skillful fingers are tight and hot around his cock. He is aching hard. 

The head of his cock is red with straining arousal and the heat coiling in his belly seems to have concentrated completely on his groin. He is too close and yet despite Freddie's best efforts and erotic grinding, Brian waits on Roger to cum first. 

It's hard to breathe watching Roger pace himself to the edge, John guiding him with his filthy mouth. 

"Look what you're doing to them. Look what you're doing to yourself— we're so lucky to have you Roger." John grunts. He licks his licks his lips. "Do it Rog. Cum for us." 

That is all it takes to set off the chain reaction. 

Rogers eyes roll back into his head and he clenches his cock between his fingers to stroke his cum out of his cock. 

He lets out the most beautiful sound and staggers if it weren't for John keeping him still.

"Keep going, give us everything." 

Roger moans and releases everything over his fingers while hot chills run down his body.

The sight of Rogers orgasm makes Brians cock pulse before he too suddenly finds all his blood rush to his cock and then release all at once, sending sparks through his veins to his head and he cums all over his belly and Freddie's hand.

Freddie keens, long and high, before he rapidly rubs himself to a release against Brians thigh.

He cums only seconds later, with his own hand still on Brians leaking cock. He stills in the aftershocks he rocks against Brian while they all catch their breath. 

Brians brain has shut down from his mind blowing orgasm. He knows he's sticky and sweating on the sheets, but all he cares about in this moment is the rush of ecstasy that's made his skin into a sensitive tingling mess. 

"I love you." He heard Freddie murmur eventually when he releases Brians spend cock.

He feels his lips on his shoulder but doesn't open his eyes. Freddie wraps an arm around him and doesn't move away. 

Brians body is still singing from his orgasm when he tries to say the same thing back, but he knows he's failed miserably, betrayed by Johns teasing chuckles. 

Soon, while Brian was drifting between conscious and the world of sleeping, he feels the warm drag of a cloth on his stomach and on his oversensitive cock. He hisses and John apologizes with a kiss. "Just gonna clean you up, lazy thing."

"Thanks." Brian grunts when the blanket is pulled over himself and Freddie. 

After spending the day at the hospital and then consoling a terribly upset Roger because he had to be alone for most of the day hadn't been easy, but he realizes it was worth it. He's healthy and at least Roger is safe and at home with them, perhaps frustrated and bored and struggling with things he can't get rid of now that he's not seeing his therapist. 

Brian grunts when he feels the sudden bounce of the mattress to the left of him. He squints open an eye to see Roger curling against his side like a well satisfied cat, also cleaned up by John.

There's a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes when he meets Brians gaze.

Brian opens an arm to Roger and wraps him close to feel him against him. To remember what it is all for. Why they are doing all of this. And it is worth it, he remembers, seeing Roger smile and lay a hand on his chest over Brians rapidly beating heart. 

Rogers eyes soften somewhat as if he realizes what Brian is thinking. "Thank you." He says.

Brian ducks down to press his lips against Rogers. "Always." 

"Are you two being such fairies over there?" Freddie grunts into Brians shoulder sounding half asleep. "Sappy." 

"Did he just call us fairies?" Roger chuckles against Brians lips and nudges Freddie with his foot. "Hate crimes in my own bedroom. I can't believe it." 

"Get used to it, Darling."

Brian can't express how giddy he feels hearing Roger say this is _his_ bedroom. It makes his chest hurt with how much his heart swells in pride. He again plants a wet kiss to Rogers cheek to distract him from Freddie. "Don't mind him. He gets prissy when he get sleepy."

Roger hum. Eyes twinkling brighter than the stars in the sky. "I guess I will have to get used to that." He says, trying not to grin.

Brian opens his mouth to reply, but John jumps into bed with them after departing from the bathroom with a yawn and popping joints. He jolts Freddie awake, who smacks him with a pillow to punish him. John pretends to smother Freddie in return, who splutters and exclaims he'll pee his pants if John doesn't stop. 

Needless to say, Brian and Roger spend the wrestling match cuddling and chuckling at their boyfriends.

Their bodies sore and their worries momentarily forgotten.

★☆★  
 _  
"Where's Mum?"_

_Rogers skin has crawled all day at school. He couldn't put his finger on the reason why all the food he's touched today has caused him to gag. He couldn't explain why his subconscious had told him to run home in the hopes of catching his mum before she was send off to work, but he had missed her by the hair of a minute._

_Richard enters the apartment alone. He unwraps his scarf and unbuttons his coat._

_Rogers legs tremble under his crushing weight as he stalks up to Richard in the dark hallway. There is a mean finality to Richards cold bitten face._

_"Sit down, Roger we need to talk." Richard says curtly. "Something has happened."_

_Rogers heart skips a beat. And then another. All the other women had returned from work two hours ago. Janice had secretly informed Roger that Winnifred had been pulled aside before the end of her shift. By the looks of Richard, it hadn't end well._

_All color drains from his Rogers the same moment his stomach drops._

_Janice said his mother and Richard were going for a walk. Roger blinks rapidly through his tears that blind his vision. Richard swims in front of him, but Rogers chest is too tight to care about yelling at shadows._

_"What did you do to her?" Tears push at his eyes and he can barely talk past the thick barbwire shaped lump in his throat. "Richard what did you do to my mother?"_

_He is pushed to the side so Richard can pass him to the bedroom._

_His cold hand on his chest rushes all the air from Rogers lungs. Richard stares blankly at him before stalking away._

_Roger will never forget the indifferent cold in his pitch black eyes._

_"Richard!" Roger screams and sobs at once, drawing everyone's attention, even Richards when he grasps for his arm and keeps him from disappearing in his bedroom. "Richard what happened to my mother? What did you do to my mother? Richard she is my mum. You can't. You can't harm her, Richard. You can't please. I beg you." Roger heaves. He can't breathe he realizes suddenly and too late. He clutches his chest with his free hand. "Please Richard, please please tell me she's okay."_

_"Stop that. Roger, calm yourself." Richard hisses._

_He tugs himself free from Rogers grip with a cold glare. Like Roger is dirt._

_A wet sob wreaks from Rogers chest. Richard stares at him and dusts himself off. "She's dead. A rival gang got to her and they shot her just as we were discussing you."_

_"I— I don... I don't understand Richard. I don't understand. Where is she? Where did this happen? Is she still there?" He stammers._

_"We disposed of the body to keep the police from digging around. I'm sorry, Rog. She was shot in the chest dead in a second. She is dead now. We were talking about you. She said she loved you. She gave us her blessing, those were her last words before she was hit."_

_Everything on the right side of his body seems to slip away into the abyss. His vision goes black and his muscles go numb. He sacks to the floor and hyperventilates to breathe. He can't feel the right side of his body no matter how hard he pinches the thin skin on his wrist between his index finger and thumb. Richard is above him, talking, but all sounds are dampened because his right ear has shut down._

_Roger is sobbing too loud and too overpowering to take in anything but his own cruel pain._

_"I want my mum. I want my mummy." Roger heaves desperately. His face hurts as he clenches his jaw. "No. Please tell me you're lying. Please."_

_"She was killed. Roger. They tried to hit me and they got her, but I promise you Rog," Richard sinks to one knee and tips Rogers chin up with his index finger. The hardness from before has disappeared from his eyes. "I promise you I will do anything within my powers to find whoever killed her and avenge her."_

_Roger grasps for the hand touching his face like a lifeline and he clings to it. Richard disappears in the sea of his tears again._

_Richard somehow manages his arms around Roger and drag him into the bedroom after locking the door and informing the other prostitutes that Winnifred wouldn't be coming home. He wishes for nobody to disturb them in these terrible times. Roger can barely hear him over the thumping of his shriveled heart._

_And for the next two weeks Roger lays in Richards bed, paralyzed with grief._

_It takes less than that for Richard to convince him to quit school, and then a little more before he gets Roger to inject himself with the numbing relief of heroin._

_The death of Rogers mother marks his last day going to school. The start of his relationship with Richard. The beginning of his addiction and the end of himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovies! Wanna chat? I take requests on my tumblr @emmaandorlando 
> 
> The story hit 200.000 and we are closing into the next and climactic part of the story. Thank you all for sticking with me, reading along and commenting lime the dears you are.


	30. Of Inside and Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogers time inside takes a toll on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, something. It’s chapter 30, nearly 10k and made with a lot of love. Enjoy my sweets. This is an honor to still have you here through everything ❤️
> 
> This one is for Leo

Being inside grows boring fast. 

It's been four weeks now, which is a month of very little fresh air and being confined to the same four walls every hour of the day. 

Roger suspects his support group thinks he's high as a kite or dead in a ditch somewhere. 

He calls Dominique frequently to keep up with whatever is left of his recovery. She always asks if he's doing well, but he's not. 

In fact Roger is terrified of being found by a notorious gang, endangering John, Freddie and Brian while risking for Roger to be returned to Richard and his wrath. 

When Brian is away for groceries or in the bedroom, when Roger is alone and everyone else is gone, he paces. 

He walks the length of the living room like the polar bear he saw on that schooltrip ten years ago. He feels like a caged animal. If he dares to break out, the zookeeper will put him back in place and lock him inside.

Perhaps he is less of a zoo animal and more a wild animal smelling poachers nearby. 

He's normally okay when Brian is there during the day and the other two boyfriends join during the later hours, but it doesn't take away of the fact how deeply bored he is when he doesn't have their attention. Especially since he got a taste of what life could be with Freddie running the store, going to the ballet, coming home late like two thieves in the night on the tips of their toes sneaking into the house. 

He had fallen asleep that night under the assumption that this was going to be his new life and it had left him so giddy, he'd woken up still with a swollen heart. 

It all came to a crashing halt with Crystals call. Roger now spends his days exactly how a past addict shouldn't spend his days; bored, scared and aimless. 

Besides the fact that they are each skillfully ignoring the letter on the kitchen table that Brian got from his previous job. Likely offering his job back for the next semester now that he is no longer in a critical condition. 

They're lucky it's only still May, buying Brian some time before he would have to leave Roger by himself eight hours a day.

The thought sets Rogers teeth on edge and it makes him dangerously crave forbidden substances to escape his earthly pains. Even now, when he glances sideways at Brian where they're both on the couch watching the horror that is daytime television in 1971, Roger fears everything that will happen in the future and mourns everything he wanted for himself, than having the ability to enjoy what's before him right now. 

He curls his fingers over Brians hand. Brians eyes stray from the soapbar commercial to Roger. His eyes lit up just before they meet. 

"Everything alright?"

Roger wishes he didn't feel numb like he does now. His chest is hollow. One thing he's learned is not to lie to his boyfriends when they are the only people close to him. That is why Roger shakes his head and he distracts himself from Brians piercing gaze to trace the veins popping out of his skin on the back of his hand. 

Brian sinks further into the back of the plush couch. His body sags but his hand stays perfectly still for Roger to caress. 

"I know this hasn't been easy. Is it the being inside?" Brian asks tentatively.

Rogers eyes are fixed on his hand and the blue meandering lines. His veins pop in the warmth of the living room. Roger thinks it strangely attractive, but he realizes now that he's found true companionship that he finds many odd things more endearing than they should be. 

It only makes him resent himself more. He thinks about how Freddie was so proud to show off the ballet. He thinks about the many promises John had made to bring him to a movie theater to scream at horrors or get turned on by adult films. Brian had wanted to take him swimming, because somehow swimming was something he'd always naturally excelled at. He'd vowed to teaching Roger.

It's those things Roger finds most endearing about his boyfriends. Their individual personalities never fall short, but Rogers freedom does. 

"When does this stop?" 

Brians visibly pauses while Roger deliberately doesn't. He stubbornly continues to follow the lines of his hands. He hopes that if he does it often enough, he'll remember them by heart. 

Roger doesn't expect suddenly for his chin to be lifted and a moment later Brian leans in to crash his lips against Rogers in a short heated kiss.

It might take forever to get used to how special a kiss can be. How tender desperation can feel.

Roger sits up on his knees to deepen the kiss. He balances himself on Brians chest and Brian wraps an arm around Rogers waist to pull him flush against himself. Their tongues slide against one another in the heat to get impossibly closer physically. Roger is suddenly far away and doesn't remember why he was upset in the first place, until Brian ends the kiss with a rush of air. 

"I don't know, Rog. But I know I'll be there for you."

While Brian means what he says, Roger doesn't know if it's fair to expect Brian to keep to his promise.

Because Roger is in a situation that has no good outcome and will drag on for many years to come. Something terrible must happen to the Bull Crew before Roger is off the hook. He thinks about the price that's been put on his head, dead or alive. The money offered is enough to buy someone a house or start their own gang. Those aren't Richards financial stretches, but someone else's aid. Some higher up the hierarchy. 

The more he is locked inside the longer time he's got to think about his dire future. He knows spending his days like this is a better option than whatever is awaiting Roger when he is found, but living in fear, this crippling, heart beat skipping, throat clenching anxiety makes him prone to craving what he most shouldn't. His dependency lets its presence known when under pressure. 

When Brian gets up to walk the cats for Freddie around the block sometime later during the day, Roger sets himself up for his telephoned therapy session with Dominique.

He's jittering and his nails are bitten raw. They only have so much time to call before it will cost them a fortune, so once settled on the wall, with the phone cradled between his neck and shoulder, Roger cuts right to the chase. 

"I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Dominique doesn't skip a beat. Roger never respected anyone more in his life than her with her calm demanding tone. "Hello Roger." She says. "Have you been inside all week again?"

"Yes."

"And no sign of him?"

"No." Roger glances over his shoulder at the empty kitchen. The blinds are closed because he prefers them shut when he's home alone. "But I jump when the postman brings the letters. I get scared when the cats run around. I'm tense." 

"This situation is the most stressful I could have thought of myself, there is no denying that." Dominique sympathizes and Roger hates that it he feels a lot better already knowing a professional doesn't think he's overreacting. He pockets the validation and takes a shuddering breath as she continues. "But there are good ways we can manage your mood so we can make your insecure times more bearable." 

"I don't see how."

Roger _again_ glances over his shoulder with a rapid heart. He keeps having this nagging feeling that someone is looking directly at him from behind the blinds. 

It is an awful paranoid assumption and he can't get himself to check, but the thought of Roy or Larry waiting for Roger to be alone and vulnerable before they take him by force like they had tried in the Dependency Ward, is beyond crippling. All sanity is hard to come by for him. 

He turns back to the receiver where Dominique has been listening patiently. 

"You don't understand. Nobody understands, because he never stops. There's nothing morally holding him back from committing horrible crimes to keep me with him. Or get me back. He has no moral compass, he just has one that points directly at me and nothing can be in the way."

"Is that what unsettles you the most?" Dominique asks tentatively. 

What unsettles him is the constant everlasting fear. The lack of a decent future in whatever scenario that'll play out. Endangering his boyfriends every single day. Knowing that the Bull Crew has enough power to pluck Roger off the streets if the wrong person sees him. 

But that's not even the worst. 

"Richard, he killed my mother. He killed her so he could be with me."

He's never said those words out loud. Not even in his head did he allow those thoughts to wander free until his hours in isolation wormed them out of every abandoned crack in his head. 

Dominique is dead silent.

Roger is aware he is breathing heavily into the telephone, but his eyes have blurred with unshed tears for his mother. 

"He killed her when I was sixteen. He said it was a rival gang, but he lied, it was him. Janice told me he and mum had disappeared together and only Richard had returned. He killed her because he was too old for me according to her. He was a pimp and a drug trafficker. She didn't want him under my nose constantly." Roger looks up at the ceiling. But the tears have already betrayed him. "She asked him not to go after me and then he did. He just killed her, because she wouldn't let me waste my life on him."

"Roger—"

"How can someone kill another person? She was my mother." Roger sniffles. "And I loved her."

If Dominique has been there with him he would have received a handkerchief and a hand on his shoulder, but Roger isn't in her office. He's in the living room of his boyfriends apartment all alone.

He sinks to the floor until he's in a crouch against the wall. His forehead rests on his knees and his phone is still held tight between his fingers.

His tears soak in the fabric of his pajama bottom. He knows that she can tell that he is crying, but he can't stop. 

Dominique sighs, long and drawn out. 

"Have you considered going to the police?" 

"That wouldn't work." Roger grits his teeth in utter frustration. "The police can never dismantle the whole crew. They'll find me and I'll be murdered for going to the cops. Besides, I'll be put in prison right next to them for being homosexual and a prostitute and an accomplice." 

"But Roger, you're living in fear. How long can this last?" 

"Longer than I last in prison." Roger mumbles. 

Dominique takes another sharp inhale, Roger can't blame her for suggesting he should go to the police, as it is the most obvious thing to do, but Roger can't put his safety in the hands of people who want him locked up. He can't trust them to jail every top man of the Bull Crew to ensure Roger won't be killed in revenge for betraying them to the cops.

There is no good scenario for him. He goes to the cops and he'll either go to jail or be murdered for it. If he goes on with his life, no matter how much Roger craves it, eventually the wrong person will see him and bring him to Richard. The final option is what he is doing now, going insane wasting his life isolated inside. 

"There's no way out. I don't know what to do. He's still ruining my life." 

"Maybe you should move away. Like Crystal." Dominique says calmly. "It's the only long term option I can think of."

There is his boyfriends jobs, their lives, their families that are all in or around London. Roger can't even think of asking them to move for him again. He's already ruined enough as it is. 

"But Roger," Dominique continues. "If that gang is still harming people, someone must do something. It is already costing you your freedom, isn't it?" 

Roger sniffles again. He rubs his nose on his knee. "Go to the cops?" 

"Yeah."

"And what if they don't arrest everyone. What if they can't convict everyone. What if they cannot be convicted forever. What then? I'll risk everything. I was assaulted by these people, by all of them, repeatedly, for profit or for their own pleasure. They don't care what happens to me. I'm a pawn. Even Richard is going around town with a 'dead or alive' poster. They just want to eliminate me."

"If they want to eliminate you, Roger if that's so important to them, don't you think that they're aware you know enough to go to the cops and cause a lot of damage." 

It makes sense, Roger thinks. He's been forced to bed with all of the big men from the crew. Including Gillian, Alan, Richard, Frank. The ones that rule the branches. Maybe Roger knows enough to worry them, but he's just one witness and not a very credible one. They want to get rid of him for certainty, not because there is a certainty Roger can harm them. 

"What do you have to lose, Roger?" 

Roger clutches the phone against his ear. He's shivering as though the room isn't properly heated. "The new life that was promised to me."

"You might have a better chance at getting that life if you go to the police." Dominique says, but she stops there. Roger imagines her face softening. "Think about it. There is no reason to not consider every option. If you decide to stay isolated, perhaps in disguise you could go outside a couple of times a week. To stay sane." 

Roger sniffles again and he turns his head so his temple rests on his knee. That suggestion takes some weight off his chest. Spending some time outside without being overly visible will do him good. 

"Yeah," He says through the lump in his throat. "I could think about that." 

★☆★

Roger corners Freddie in the hallway when he comes home from work a few days later. He's barely closed the door when Roger pushes himself in front of him, smiling tentatively in Freddie's delighted surprise.

"Have you been waiting behind the door for me all day?" Freddie chuckles and wraps an arm around Roger to pull him in for a chaste kiss. "You really are bored aren't you."

"Hi Fred." Roger closes his eyes when their lips meet halfway. Freddie's nose is still cold from the rain. "I wanted to talk to you. Alone."

"Alright, Darling. Everything alright?"

Freddie frowns and pulls away far enough to not hit Roger in the face as he removes his scarf and hangs it over the hook beside the door. Roger watches his movements to stay calm himself. Focusing on the gracious ease in which Freddie carries himself has yet to fail settling his heart into peace. 

Before he speaks Roger closes in on Freddie again and keeps his tone low when he speaks. In regards of the other two in the living room. "I don't think the others would understand."

Freddie physically pauses. Then he reaches out to lay a hand over Rogers midway through the air. "What is it, Dear?" 

It is harder than he thought it would be. Roger feels idiotic even trying to say the words.

"Freddie I can't live like this. I need to go outside." He says, not sounding very convinced of himself. "Maybe I can work half days at the stall, when it's not too busy." 

"Absolutely not." Freddie gapes, incredulously. Roger is taken aback by the sudden outburst. 

His hurt must have shown on his face, because Freddie's eyes soften before he exhales. "I mean, I cannot have you outside for hours at the time in the same location in broad daylight. Roger, it's not worth risking your life over." 

"What about somewhere else?" Roger begs. He doesn't know why he feels the need to plead, but he gives into the instinct. He presses himself flush against Freddie and eyes him up. "I'll go anywhere. I thought you'd understand, I'm going insane inside."

Freddie gives him a long hard look. Roger stills and allows Freddie to see all the emotions that Roger is feeling. 

"Like where?" 

"Anywhere. If only for a moment. I'll go in disguise, we can go at night, but this cannot be my life Fred. I need air. I'm going insane. I keep thinking about things." 

"Bad things?" Freddie murmurs. Roger can't help it. He thinks about drugs and the relief from reality they provide. He nods. Freddie bops his head in mutual understanding. "Was it something Dominique said that makes you think this is the best?" 

"She thinks I should go to the police, because I already live in imprisonment." 

"Well the others won't like it." Freddie hums. He drums his fingers on Rogers arm almost subconciously. "But we can't have you living in fear, locked up forever. It's been a near two months already since we got Crystals call. We'll have to be really careful regardless, but we can think of something to get you out of the flat for a little while." 

Never have any words caused Roger a greater sense of relief. 

He exhales a rush of air and falls into Freddie's open arms with a steady inhale. He thanks him, with his face mashed into Freddie's shoulder, he murmurs a hundred thank you's and I love you's. Something he doesn't say often no matter how much he means it. 

He doesn't think the others would be supportive of his idea, but Freddie won't let him down on this. Freddie always had a deeper understanding of Rogers mind.

He had been Rogers therapist at one point, despite that feeling like a lifetime ago.

Roger runs his nose down the soft side of Freddie's neck, where even after the long day his perfume is still tangible beneath the thin layer of sweat. It settles Roger into a calmer mindset, even playing on his drums today would not calm his roaring thoughts down and Dominiques words play in his head like a broken record. 

"My mind just won't shut up when I'm alone or not drumming." Roger murmurs. "It won't be quiet and I can hear him. I can smell him and that rotten apartment like I'm still there." Roger ravages on and his heart beat picks up once again even in Freddie's arms, distracted by his perfume, Roger remembers the smell of unwashed sheets, dried sweat and broken spirits. "I don't want to be there. I want to be okay." 

Freddie wraps his arms tight around Rogers waist and keeps them both upright with his strength alone. 

His nose brushes over Rogers ear when he speaks and his lip graces his cheek like a reassuring kiss. "You're okay. You're okay Darling, I'm here. While I'm here you're never going back there and I won't have you wasting away inside."

Despite everything and all the odds stacked against them, he sounds convinced and Roger clings to his confidence like a lifeline. 

"I am going to take care of you. Make sure you get some proper fresh air. That's a promise. When do I not keep my promise?" 

"Never." Roger says honestly. And Freddie nods with a curt satisfaction. 

"Precisely, nothing to worry about."

★☆★

It is quite a rush Roger feels when Freddie sneaks him out of the flat into his car. 

They dressed him up in one of the scarfs they used while visiting the ward after Rogers attempted kidnapping. Roger is someone out of an old Hollywood flick, with his fur coat, sunglasses and silk scarf around his hair. For precaution, Freddie has also disguised himself, before popping behind the wheel with a contained nervous smile.

They musn't be too nervous, that would only draw more attention to them. 

Roger forces himself to lean back into his seat and let the melodies of the radio calm him down. It does not help that beside him Freddie is twitching and his knee is bouncing. Not to the rhythm of the beat. 

Roger keeps his eyes on the outside world passing by. He can't imagine that there will be many more occasions in which they can secretly do this again. Anything done without Johns knowing feels like hiding from the secret police, only the secret police isn't half as terrifying as John knowing they have gone outside even though a powerful gang is after Roger.

"Mind turning up the radio?" Roger asks when his negative thoughts become consuming again.

Freddie wordlessly flips the volume up. He speeds up the car too, Roger is grateful to roll down the window and have the wind blow on his face. He looks at the cars that drive by, but makes sure not to make eye contact with anyone, in case they might have a spark of recognition. 

He doesn't stop looking until they come to a stop a short fifteen minutes later. Which is about three or four songs. Two if they are progressive rock. 

Freddie parks the car between two others. Roger makes no comment on how one wheel is half on the pavement. One look is enough to bring Freddie to scowl. "You think you could do better?"

"Probably." Roger waits until Freddie turns off the ignition before he grabs a hold of his wrist to get Freddie to look at him. "Fred, I want to be normal." He says, from behind the glasses and the stifling scarf around his head. "I know that might sound ridiculous, but I want to learn how to drive, I want to have a passport, I want to travel, I want to go outside and be a person. Being inside constantly just reminds me that for so long I was not. I don't want Richard to control my life even when he is not there physically to do it." 

"In other words, you're thanking me for risking Johns wrath to take you record shopping?"

Roger pauses— and he breathes. Freddie has this funny way of distracting Roger from the darkness and leading him headfirst towards the light. Roger could kiss him, if it wasn't for the potential unlookers outside the car. "You are taking me record shopping?" 

"I thought you might want to. It will certainly release you from relying on Brians to not constantly play his crap."

"I'm fine as long as he never plays Johnny Cash for four hours straight again." Roger grins, following Freddie in unbuckling his seatbelt. "But I would love to have my own records."

"And you will have some!"

Freddie dutifully waits for Roger to round the car before they hunch their way into the store together. Roger hopes in a way that is conceived normal to others who might recognize him on the semi-busy streets. 

Inside the shop Rogers first instinct is to lower his glasses and squint at the light, but Freddie sends him a warning glance before Rogers hands can slip them off. 

He musn't be stupid. Not now with so much at stake.

Freddie fusses with the edge of Rogers scarf where bits of blond have stuck out, Roger lets him adjust it while he takes a gaping look around the room. He never imagined what heaven would be like, only that his mother would be there, but this record shop must be part of the fantasy. There are bookshelves upon bookshelves of records lining the walls and the sorted tables in the middle of the store. Each and every shelf is sectioned as are all the table sections. There is the top of the charts, newest releases highlighted albums at the front of the store, with in the back posters and on the tables record players free to use.

Freddie could not have released Roger soon enough for him to dash between the people and find his way over to the Hendrix Experience section further in the back. 

The store is busy enough for nobody to bat an eye at Roger, that much he does register before he begins to roam through what seems to be a never ending supply of music. Freddie is hot on his heels, like a mother would chase a child around a theme park. But he doesn't comment on Rogers enthusiasm, not when he sees how joyed Roger is to hold in his hand his own first record. 

"Look Fred! This only came out last week. It is all new material." He holds the album up to Freddie, who takes it with a surprised raise of his left brow.

"Cry of Love. Sounds terribly sad. Odd Bri didn't know about this. He is usually on top of Hendrix. Not physically, though he wishes." Freddie snorts while his eyes rake over the titles on the back. 

While he reads, Roger finds himself face to face with a box of albums that says 70% off. He dives in, like a fish on fire would jump into a pond. 

He flips through the albums with a frown. He looks at every name he doesn't know and takes a look at their album and how creative the titles are. Most are from the earlier to mid 60s from the looks of it, simpler times. Or so he thinks. Album covers weren't bright and inspired by LSD. Titles were short and compact. People didn't worry to be more creatively odd than the artist of last week. Singles were less than three minutes. He loves it. It might not be the difficulty and craftmanship of Abbey Road or Janis Joplin, but it makes him smile thinking of his time in high school when songs were 'She loves you yeah yeah yeah'. Simpler times. 

"Are you nostalgic over It's My Party?" Freddie asks suddenly, standing very close to Roger.

Roger does not jump, but only because he recognizes Freddie's teasing tone in a crowd of a million. He holds up the album and puts it into Freddie's hands, alongside Cry of Love.

"It is actually titled 'I'll Cry If I Want To'." Roger counters. He stops flipping and frowns when he suddenly remembers. "My mum used to love that album."

"Did she?" Freddie asks with a warm smile. He holds the two albums closer to his chest. "We'll get it to have a reminder of her then. Lesley Gore has always had a bedazzling voice. Hasn't she?"

"Yes." Roger agrees. He suddenly feels hyperaware of his surroundings again.

He takes a casual look around the room, trying to see if anoyne is paying particular interest in them. When after a third round of staring, he catches nobody staring back, he breathes more easily again. He is sure Freddie is also paying attention, but Freddie wouldn't be able to pick Andrei or Roy out of a crowd.

With that he counts his blessings and moves onto the second box that is for sale, but only for 30%. Last months top singles. 

Freddie follows him kindly, without protest allowing Roger to lead pace and direction, only interjecting when Roger attempts to skip the soul and jazz section on their path. 

He doesn't say a thing when Roger ends up with seven records, including two for the stall. Roger tries to select a few, but Freddie will have none of his compromises and insists on making his way to the cash register and pay the full fee. Roger stays close to his side, feeling eternally grateful and surprisingly not like a burden. 

The paper bag with the albums and singles is put into his hands once paid for. Roger smiles at Freddie, he misses the dark of his eyes he knows shimmers behind his glasses. And again he longs to kiss him. 

"Should we get going?" He finds himself asking to resist his finest urges. 

Freddie answers by offering his elbow to link their arms together. Roger follows, although cautiously and together they leave the store with a feeling of self satisfaction.

The bell above the store jingles when they leave and once outside they are met with a steady drizzle falling from the sky.

"Are we going home?" Roger tries his best to keep the disappointment out of his tone, but from Freddie's curled up lip corners, he knows he let himself on. Freddie pulls on his arm and Roger notices that they pass the car without glancing back at it. 

"I don't see why we can't drop the records for the stall off at the stall." Freddie smiles sideways at Roger. "Is my disguise still on?"

"Yes it's good. And mine?"

"Perfect, Darling."

In another case Roger would have hated the small droplets of rain that keep hitting his face and specs, but with his arm linked to Freddie's and their feet in step with each other, Roger finds himself enjoying the miserable weather. It is even harder to draw attention to themselves from strangers with the dark overcast and everyone huddled under their hoods or umbrella. It is almost like wearing some sort of mask. Nobody cares to see who they are crossing to get home, it only matter to get there as fast as possible.

Roger knows that Kensington Market isn't far from the record shop, he therefor makes an effort to enjoy the breath of fresh air and the dewy scent of clattering rain.

They make it to the stall entirely too fast, but Roger doesn't comment on his own disappointment. Freddie fiddles with the keys in his slippery fingers and the cold causes shaky hand coordination. Roger looks around them, a little worried. He can't see much through the droplets on his glasses and the tinted shades. All the stalls have closed down for the day hours ago. The streets are near empty aside from several pedestrians and cars whoosing back and forth with their windshield wipers on their fastest setting. Everyone is trying to get home safe and in a hurry. The hairs on the back of Rogers neck stand raised, he wishes Freddie would hurry up and get them inside. The peaceful rain has suddenly turned into a disguise for potential danger. 

"Freddie..."

"Don't worry Dear, I got it. It's a bit tricky with this goddamn downpour. I can't see for shit with these glasses. It's like-- Oh right, got it." Freddie turns back to grin at Roger when the key slips into the lock and the door to the stall flips open.

Roger feels dreadully exposed. He grabs Freddie by the arm and pulls him inside. He rushes to close the door behind themselves like they were being chased.

Once the door is properly shut, Roger rests his head against the back of the door and lets out a rush of air.

"Rog— What's wrong?" Freddie removes his glasses to reveal his wide set of panicked eyes and steps up to Roger, crowding him against the door. "Did you see something?" 

Roger shakes his head. He reaches for his own glasses and frantically removes them to adjust to the terrifying darkness. They should not have gone out. His heart is racing loud and fast against his ribcage. Roger closes his eyes and allows Freddie to pull him in a close hug.

"No. No I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He murmurs, feeling terribly stupid. His face heats up with shame. "This is stupid."

"It's most definitely not." Fredde reassures him and in one swift movement tugs the scarf down Rogers head to stroke his fingers through his hair. "What happened? Are you okay?" 

"I just had this terrible feeling I was being watched." Roger heaves.

He wriggles his arm between their chests to clutch at his heart. His chest hurts. Dominique has warned him about panic attacks before, he's probably had one or two in the past, but he did not imagine it would feel like the way someone would describe a heart attack. 

Freddie is on him the exact same moment Roger realizes what is happening and his brown eyes switch into a knowing expression. Freddie first reaches for the lightswitch, which thank God only works for a single lightbulb hung from the ceiling. Then Rogers fur coat is being dragged off his body, he realizes he is breathing fast and irregular and his hands are shaking too much to be of help for Freddie. 

He is then sat on his arse against the mirror between the clothing racks. Freddie crouches down in front of him. He puts his hands on Rogers knees and then breathes in deep.

Roger catches on and watches Freddie's lips to match his breathing patter. His throat is dry and his skin feels tight around his bones. They should not have gone outside. They should not have gone outside.They should not have gone outsideThey should not havegoneoutsidetheyshouldnothave--

"Darling, it went so well the whole way over. We are safe here. Everything is okay. Come on take a deep breath with me, from the belly. Come on."

Roger looks at Freddie's lips exhaling through his fuzzy gaze. He is breathing in and out slowly, much slower than Rogers body will comply to now, but Roger tries. He is grounded by Freddie's weight on his knees and the intense gaze that never falters. 

When Roger is following the breathing cycle more securely, Freddie briefly gets up to find Roger a bottle of water they had laying around on the register.

"Are you ready?"

"For what—"

Most of the water gets splashed onto Rogers already rain-wet face, even though Roger held out his hand to grab a hold of the bottle. He splutters at the sudden attack, but Freddie hushes him. "It's good for you. You can drink the rest."

He is given the bottle and Roger brings the edge to his lips to chug as much water he can at once, feeling like he had run a marathon in the Sahara Dessert. 

Freddie is pulling the rest of his disguise off too, the scarf and coat he had wrapped himself in. Roger watches him while he drinks. The sight of him is more calming than any of Freddie's little therapist tricks. "I-isn't that Deacky's coat?"

"Hm? Oh! Yes it is in fact." Freddie smiles just as he bundles the wet velvety coat to the side. "He never wears it, but I make good use of it."

"It looks nice." Roger says despite still struggling for breath. His lips keep hovering over the bottle, his shaking hands cause the water inside to rock from side to side. "He doesn't mind if it gets wet?"

"It is a coat! What else can he expect, honestly." Freddie smiles idily. 

He reaches over to Roger again and Roger allows him to touch his irritating prickling skin. It is soothing to have Freddie's knuckles run down his cheeks. They must be flaming hot and blotched from whatever fit Roger is working himself through, but Freddie is merciful and does not comment on such a thing.

All Roger sees in his eyes is a sparkling adoration. 

"If you are trying to distract me, it's working." Roger says. 

Freddie's smile manages to grow despite everything else Roger has caused. But Roger tries to push that guilt down until he knows how to deal with it appropriately. "If it's working I am a happy man. I didn't study psychology for three years to suck at distracting people. It is the most use I get out of it these days."

"You've always done well distracting me." Roger grins. "You know, you've always been—"

Roger cuts himself off speaking when a sudden sharp knock on the front door sends him bumping back into the mirror behind him. 

Freddie seems equally shaken and jumps to his feet. Face pulled in a deep frowns, one finger pointed at Roger and then the floor, obviously telling him to stay down. It makes no sense for there to be customers, every other stall is closed and even the large sign Freddie handpainted tells that they are not open for business. 

With great caution, Freddie tip-toes his way over to the wooden door when another impatient knock is followed by a boyish, "Hey? Anyone in there?" 

It isn't Richard, Rogers heart skips a beat just from that thought, but it is still an aggresively angry male voice. Roger bites his lip and he trembles almost too much to pull his knees to his chest in a protective cocoon. 

Freddie puts his ear to the door. Hand on the doorknob hesitantely. 

His Adams apple bops in a thoughtgul pause. He looks back at Roger, then the door. "Hello?"

"Hey, who's in there? Freddie is that you?" The man on the other side asks. Roger observes Freddie's face morph from confused to mildly annoyed a moment later. His shoulders sag when the tension melts from his body. Roger doesn't understand why he is suddenly so relieved.

"Who is it?" He wants to ask, but his voice barely comes out above a whisper.

Freddie shakes his head and sends him a tired smile. "No, it's fine. Just the landlord I think."

He reaches for the doorknob and twists it open. "Freddie? What are you doing here man, it is way past closing time. I was just passing and saw the light was on inside. Thought someone was breaking in." 

"No no," Freddie smiles tightly. "Just us."

"Us?"

Through the rain outside, Roger cannot see who Freddie is welcoming in, only until the tall man with greasy blond hair stops dead in tracks in the doorway when his eyes cast down on Roger. 

Roger should have recognized that voice the first moment he spoke, but he only matches the sound to the memories when he sees he oval shaped chin and mean almond eyes zero in on him. 

"Kevin."

"Roger." Kevins bushy eyebrow raises up to his hairline. A sickening smile curls on his lips as he observes Roger unblinkingly. "Roger that's actually you."

Freddie has stopped moving altogether. His eyes turn on to Roger. And Roger, with a single glance tries to convey every bit of dread that is coursing through his blood right this moment. 

A dry chuckle rips from Kevins throat. It is humourless and thick with glee. 

"I know where you are now."

That is all it takes for Freddie to grab a hold of Kevins shirt and pin him down against the doorpost with his elbow in his neck. Kevin seems uneffected, despite being properly held down with no means of escape, and looks down on a much smaller Freddie, red in the face and with water running down his hair. "You work for him. You?" 

"I don't work for anyone." Kevin grins, showing off his awful row of teeth. "It's the money that decides who's side I'm on man. When it is selling drugs to Richards whores, or selling his whores back to him, it's a game of profit. Monopoly, if you will." He smiles straight at Roger, the mirth and satisfaction is displayed openly and genuine in his eyes. "I know where you are now blondie. I know where you live. I know where your new master lives, I know enough to bring Richard to you."

Freddie, eyes flaming with seething anger, pushing his elbow hard against Kevins windpipe. "Don't you fucking dare speak another word, or I will choke the life out of—"

It all happens in the split of a second. 

Roger screams when Kevin pulls a light catching pocket knife out of his coat and takes an aimed swing at Freddie's stomach. Freddie yelps and jumps back from the assault, giving Kevin enough time to gather himself and make a run for it. 

Freddie is still gathering himself against the rack of skirts, but Roger knows there is no time to waste. With an unexpected rush of adrenaline, Roger dashes forward into the rain and follows after Kevin faster than he has ever run in his life. He nearly slips and falls on the aspalt with his sneakers. They are lucky that they aren't hit by any passing vehicles. Onlookers watch the chase with morbid fascination, but Roger barely notices them from the rush and desperation that carries him across the street after Kevin. Kevin is by all means not an atlethe and comes to a staggering halt when he realizes Roger will keep chasing him far beyond the first block they have run. Kevin still has his knife out and he flexes his fingers on the rainwet handle. The smile has yet to drop from his insane face. 

"What is it?" He asks. "Want me to hand you over to Richard myself right now? Does your new master treat you so bad?"

"Please, Kevin. Please I beg you, please don't do this."

Roger takes a long heaving catch of air, he blinks rapidly though the rain and his hands intertwine in a begging position. They are near numb from the constant downpour. Kevin appears completely unaffected by his desperation.

"You don't know what it's like to be nothing. Absolutely nothing. I can't go back to that, you have to understand. I can't live like that. Please don't tell him about me, about Fred. Please."

At his sudden turn of emotions, Kevin comes to an abrupt halt. He lowers his weapon somewhat when he considers Roger as completely unarmed, in his sweater and trousers, coat left inside the stall and carrying no bag. He doesn't feel threatened, and Kevin takes the opportunity to catch his breath too. 

Roger speaks through the thick ball of barbwire stuck at the back of his throat. He is all to aware that his fate hangs on a hair thin thread now, in the hands of this insane inhumane monster that sees Roger like nothing but a heap of meat to beat and stick his dick in if he so desires. Roger knows his lays now in Kevins hands, the hands that have chocked and whipped him in the past, now wielding a knife with the opportunity to make a lot of money off Rogers misery. 

"I beg you, Kevin, I know it is a lot to ask, but I beg you, please do not give Freddie's address or any ingredients to Richard. Please."

"It's not just his address that I've got." Kevin reminds him with a sinister finality. "I am his landlord, Roger. He rents the stall from me. I have everything on him. I know how to find him, if you think Richard won't come after you tonight already." 

"But you don't have to." Roger squeezes his eyes shut. He can't hear himself over his thundering heartbeat and the storm raging around them. He drops onto his knees and shakes his head. His hands are still held together like one would say a prayer. "Please, please, please. I can't go back to that. I can't go back. You don't know what they'll do to me."

He is barely done speaking when Kevins insulting scoff shuts his mouth instantly. Roger looks up at him, from between the wet strands of his hair. 

Kevins scoff turns into dry laughter, he is standing some steps away and points the knife at Roger. "God, Blondie you've got no idea do you? You are worth 2000 fucking quid, Rog. You know how much money that is?" 

He knows. Rogers parents bought a house for that money when he was a kid. 

He looks up at Kevin and shakes his head to clear his mind from wandering too far. The money shouldn't matter. He reminds himself. He is a person. There should't be money on his head. His life cannot be measured in coins.

"Please," He heaves. "You'll ruin my life. It'll be my death sentence." 

Kevin rolls his eyes so far back that even Roger can see it without his glasses. The taller man steps closer while Roger is still down on his knees being rained wet to the spot. The knife consequentially nears him too. Roger sees his own reflection in the silver edge. He looks more like the prostitute he was half a year ago than he has in a long time. He hates how fast he can lower himself to that level again. 

"Do you have that money for me then? 2000 quid, Rog. Do you have it? Because otherwise it seems to be in my best interest to go to Richard right now. Tell him everything. Including Freddie's personal details, and if you get any funny ideas about leaving town within the next hour, I am sure he knows how to get his family's addresses too once he has Freddie's. And that of his boyfriends families— What? You thought I didn't know?" He crouches down so they are on the same eye level. Rogers mind screams for him to run, with the knife in such close proximity, but his body is rooted to the spot. "Running is useless Roger, he would make their lives miserable, you would regret it. You may think that I don't know you, but I see right through you. You are begging for mercy because you have no other way out. You know that Richard will be at your boyfriends doorstep in an hour. Max. Maybe less. He will beat them, you know he would kill them, but slowly. You know that once he has Freddie's home address, identity card and his bank details, he will get to his family in less than a day. You know this. So you try to play on my humanity, but here is the thing Roger, I will go to Richard and tell him about Freddie, because Richard is offering a nice sum of money for my work. You are not. You might as well come with me now and spare everyone a lot of time and effort. Maybe safe some lives too."

With a rush of air and wind Roger is suddenly pulled upright by the back of his soaked sweater. He panics, until he sees it is Freddie dragging him several steps away from Kevin. 

Kevin looks ready to bolt again, but Freddie shouts at him to wait. Kevin scoffs and turns back around. "You people can't stop me--"

"I can get it to you by tomorrow." 

Both Roger and Kevin send Freddie an equally dumbfounded look. Roger doesn't like where this is going, but he cannot move much with Freddie's hand still clutching his sweater. 

"Freddie—" 

"Tomorrow meet us here." Freddie shouts over the rain at Kevin in newfound determination. "We'll have 2000 pounds for your silence, but you must give us until tomorrow to gather it. I know you would prefer it over doing deals with a gang. We have more to lose than them, who says you will really get the money from them? 2000 is a lot." 

Doubt crosses Kevins face for the first time since their conversation started. Roger watches in fascinating as he lowers his knife. 

"The full 2000?" 

"Yes." Freddie promises. "Like you said, you have my bank account, my home address, a copy of my ID, there is no way I can disappear within the next few hours. And my family..." Freddie shakes his head. "No. We will settle this, tomorrow, at this hour at the stall."

"But Freddie—" Roger tries to interject, but Kevin cuts him off first.

"And don't you dare go to the police. I can make a call if I am arrested. Don't think I won't tell Richard from prison." 

"Oh we know." Freddie retorts with narrowed eyes. "We'll have the money with you here, by tomorrow at seven. If you go to Richard anyway, don't think they will treat you fairly and give you the money, they are more powerful and more in control than you. Don't think I won't go after you myself if you break this deal."

"You have my word."

Freddie gives a jerky nod. "And you have mine."

★☆★ __

_Desperate times lead to desperate meassures._

_Kevin has felt on edge since he'd woken up this morning. Even after two spliffs, his mind wouldn't slow down. He knows very well what he needs instead, but his lady had left him a little while ago, something about him not being serious enough. The thought of her had only angered him more._

_This caused him to wander the streets later at night when the energy pent up inside himself kept him up. He usually waits until the rush hour for the whores is over and they are tired, desperate and alone wandering back to Menom Road._

_Only that night he had not seen anyone._

_It is not uncommon for it to be quiet on late Wednesdays, but Kevin grows frustrated when the only obvious prostitute he sees is a tall curveless girl, wandering on her sneakers back to Menom Road. He has never seen any woman so freakishly tall. He contemplates going home and beating himself off, because she might not be worth the money, but the thought of having wasted over tw hours staring out into the dark alleyway seems like too much of a waste._

_He wistles at her through the gaps of his teeth. She comes up to him, her steps somewhat staggered. Her knees are turned inwards when she walks. Kevin tries to focus on her face instead, which is at least decent, if not poorly aged._

_She stops some feet away from him. She is wary, but too tired to do anything about the potential danger. Kevin could easily outrun her. Chase her down the block. She would not get far on those U shaped legs._

_He already feels himself hardening beneath his clothes. It has been too long._

_"If you come home with me I can offer smack, for half your rate." He offers first and foremost. At the thought of a hit, her eyes lift up._

_He lures her to his apartment, only several blocks away. She keeps quiet, which he appreciates. They arrive before the rain starts and he leads her up the stairs to his front door. When he does look at her between fiddling with the keys, he has to tip his chin up to look at her face, which he realizes is something he finds very unnatractive._

_He holds the door open and she slips inside, rubbing her arms to warm herself up from the nights cold._

_Kevin has done this many times before. He knows how good prostitues are at wasting precious time. He puts his keys in the bowl next to the door and removes his shoes, before he goes to pour himself a drink. Imogen stands in the hall behind him, looking like a fish out of the water._

_"Undress and get on the bed. I want you face up, legs spread. Don't leave me waiting."_

_"Okay."_

_And she rushes to the bed opposite the kitchen. She begins unlacing her sneakers and then pulling at the buttons of her sweater. Her nervous jittering excites him. He watches her hurry over the brim of his glass. He think sometimes that he is sick, enjoying what he inflicts on his partners, but the overwhelming enjoyment of control is not something anyone could dispute._

_He finishes his beer and loudly leaves the glass on the counter. From the corner of his eye he sees her flinch. She is already on the bed, bare, and ready._

_Her skin is the color of his sheets, stark white. Her bones jut out of her skin ready to burst free. If that wasn't enough, her bruises and marks have left her body a canvas of abuse. Kevin unwinds his belt, loop for loop. The girls head is turned away from him._

_"What did you say your name was?"_

_"Imogen." She says into his pillows._

_Kevin hums and as soon as his belt is free he grabs a handful of her hair and forces her head to turn with a sharp yank._

_"Listen Imogen, the only semi-attractive thing about you is that face of yours. Make sure I can see it at all times, or I won't be satisfied with our session and I won't pay you. Not with heroin, not with money. You get me?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Yes sir, that is."_

_"Yes sir." She pipes out, sounding on the verge of tears from the grip he has on her hair, pulling on the fine roots in her scalp. Good, he thinks. He feels himself getting erect at the sight and pulls a little harder until the tears spill down her cheeks and he considers it time to lower his pants._

_He usually does not last long during sessions, especially not when the girls or boys do wat he says and he enjoys himself more or less. He doesn't think she could handle some of the beatings he performs on others, but he grips and he yanks where he can. She takes sharp intakes of breath and chokes on his cock when he pushes it too far. She gags, but doesn't stop, not even with the embarrassing amount of drool running down her chin and Kevin wraps his hands around her throat to put pressure on her windpipe. She looks like a whore. Kevin gets off swiftly from the loud desperate gagging._

_By the end of the twenty minutes they have been in the apartment, he is finished and with the buzz still swarming his system he gets to his feet to fetch her promised drugs._

_While he is gone she gets up to pull her clothes back on. Her body is shaking and paler than when they started. Kevin gives her a onceover, when he returns, but he sees no remaining marks that were made by him left on her. She is bend by the waist, but not lacing her shoes up yet, looking at something in her lap._

_Kevin rounds the bed and frowns. If he catches her stealing from his house, he might have to cause remaining scars to leave the right message._

_"What do you have there?"_

_Imogen jumps. She is fast to tug the piece of paper under her skirt, in the hopes of Kevin not seeing her do so. He scowls at her. It might not be gentleman like, but he reaches under her skirt and pushes her back onto the bed to grab a hold of what she is hiding. "If I find out you are a stealing bitch I will bash your he--"_

_He stops and stares at the paper in his hand. Imogen sits upright, looking flustered in the face._

_"It is old." Imogen says. "I did not show you because it is old."_

_Kevin holds the paper out to her, eyebrows raised. "A bounty on Rogers head, huh."_

_"It is not the case anymore, Richard has taken the reward back—"_

_"Don't lie to me." Kevin pushes the paper in her face, mushing up her makeup and forcing her neck backwards. "I know he must be desperate if he is offering that much money. Richard lost competence. That is why all his whores end up at my place taking my drugs."_

_Imogen lowers the wanted poster from her face to fold in again. Tugging it in her shirt like a dirty secret._

_Kevin scoffs, "What? You are covering for him? That dumb fucking cunt ran from a gang thinking he would be fine. He deserves what he gets. Nobody can disappear without a trace... Well, maybe with an incompetent branch leader as Richard, I suppose it is not impossible."_

_Imogen is staring down in her lap, her hands shake where they lightly rest on her knees. Kevin rolls his eyes and then decides to give her the drugs so she can go. The sight of her no longer gives him anything remotely pleasurable. He also stuffs a couple of coins down her bra where he had seen her hide the poster of Roger._

_She freezes at being touched like that, as if he had not just used her in much worse ways only minutes ago._

_He sends her off with a pat on the ass, out the front door with the drugs and the little money she made now in her pockets. "I'll keep my eyes open, you know." Kevin calls after her from where he is leaning against the doorpost. "For your little friend that is. I'm sure Richard would be pleased to have him back."_

_She turns back to glare at him. Kevin is somewhat taken aback by the fiery in her dark green eyes. He reminds himself that she has no power here. Nowhere. A glowering prostitute is nothing more than a spoiled dog thinking itself safe not to be punished._

_"Go now. Before I tell him you were here taking drugs from someone else."_

_Imogens eyes narrow, and she glares backwards at Kevin until she has to round the corner down the corridor. Despite having relieved himself off the pent up energy, Kevin cannot sleep peacefully that night. All he sees are those green eyes, before he wakes up from the sensation of being chocked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a lot has happened. Feel free to tell me if you have a question. This wasn’t an easy chapter to write. 
> 
> This has been **30 chapters**. 30!!! I get emotional just realizing you are still here with me while we are closing in on the final, bless you all❤️


	31. Of Money and Risks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and Roger are confronted with the problem they need to face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a really exciting one for me. I worked hard and proudly on her so I hope you guys like it too, thank you all for still reading along. What the hell 31 chapters!!! You guys are crazier than me ahahha

"Where the _fuck_ have you two been?"

Freddie shoulders his way past John and manoeuvres Roger inside the flat by his elbow. "I can't explain it now. We don't have much time."

He pushes Roger into Johns arms and trusts him to catch him, even when he is deeply furious. Freddie would have been more afraid of Johns wrath if he weren't hyperfocused on getting them the hell out of here. He passes Brian in the hall, who calls and follows after him into the bedroom where Freddie rips out the duffle bag from the closet and starts stuffing their most essential items inside. Their pyjamas, Brians emergency pain medication, Rogers journal, spare clothes, their passports—

Freddie, through his frantic packing, is surprised when he suddenly finds himself pushed onto the bed and gripped hard on the shoulder.

John is glaring down at him with his eyes spitting flames. Behind him Brian has taken over holding Roger in his arms, rocking him while whispering reassurances into his hair. Though the sight is sweet and heartbreaking all at once, Freddie is more worried about Johns seeming desire to murder him. 

"You tell me what is going on right now, or I will fucking slap you."

"We need to leave, right now." Freddie tries to keep his voice leveled now that he is forced go look up at his younger boyfriend. "We made a mistake. We went outside and it was a mistake."

Realization dawns upon John. His anger dissipates and makes way for bone-shaking dread in his sullen dark eyes. 

"Where were you two?"

"We went to the stall." Freddie continues. His voice is unfamiliar to his own ears. He is strangely numb despite the objective horrors of their situation. "My landlord saw us. My landlord he... He knows Richard."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" 

Freddie pushes John away and gets up to continue gather their things. "No. No I'm not. We need to leave, in case he betrays us." He leaves John standing in the middle of the room with a gaping face. He passes Roger and Brian in the doorway, without meeting their eyes. He is too ashamed to do so and has no time to pick apart his responsibility for this outcome now.

He marches into the living room and while he grabs the cash they hide in the black panther vase and their most important files stored on a neat stack under the television set. 

Behind him he feels the presence of another person. Freddie turns around to gather the transport boxes for the cat, but finds John already holding them out to him with an expression close to terrifyingly blank.

He crouches down and opens the five metal gates for the cats without taking his eyes from Freddie. While he snaps his fingers to try and lure the cats into the plastic carriers, he asks, "Tell me what happened." 

It is in fact not a question and Freddie finds it hard to speak, though it is easier to explain what happened now, considering Roger is not in the room. 

He gets into a crouch too and gathers the cats to scoop them into the transport carriers. 

"Roger begged to go outside."

John barely lets him finish his sentence. 

"Don't you dare blame this on him. You of all people have to be aware that he is prone to poor judgement. You took him outside, without telling us." John hisses and while it prevents Roger from hearing it in the other room, it still scares the cats. 

Freddie runs his knuckles down Oscars flattened ears in an attempt to soothe him. "We were perfectly disguised. He convinced me with reason and logic to take him for a spin around town. We bought some records and made a walk."

"Then what?"

"We stopped at the stall, way past closing time. My landlord, Kevin, he found us there wondering if we were burglars. He saw Roger and instantly recognized him. He said he didn't work for Richard, but he is in that world. He knew about the reward."

"Fuck. _Fuck_ , Freddie."

"He threatened to go to Richard immediately. He knows everything about me, being my landlord. He has my address, my banking details, my ID... He pulled a knife on me and ran for it, but Roger stopped him."

Oscar has calmed down and alongside his siblings Freddie puts him directly into his case, where Oscar lets out a pitiful meow when the door is locked by John.

"I don't know how or why, but Roger got Kevin to talk and he distracted him long enough for me to come too. They were a few blocks over and it was raining and I couldn't find them. Kevin had a knife so I didn't know if he would hurt Rog, but I found them talking, safe and sound. Roger could not persuade him not to tell Richard. There was— a lot on the line. With everything that he knows about me, he can get information on my family and all our families in a minute. Roger stood no chance."

"What did you do?"

Johns eyes are wide ans serious. Freddie lowers his gaze and takes a shaky breath. "I offered to pay Kevin the money."

"How. Freddie how? When? How much?"

"It's 2000 quid—"

"Fucking hell—!"

"—But he gave me until tomorrow to gather the money, before he would go to Richard. He doesn't trust Richard to give him the money once he has given the information, so he took my offer to give him the money instead by tomorrow."

"And what if he goes to Richard immediately anyway? What the fuck Freddie? Did you even think this through?"

Freddie stands up to his feet and pulls the strap of the duffelback over his shoulder. His clothes are still soaking wet from the rain and he is uncomfortable in the rapidly drying denim jeans. John follows after him getting to his feet and takes three cat carriers to bring over to the door, while Freddie grabs the other two. 

"I did what I had to. He threatened to give up my information to Richard for the reward, but if I could offer less risks and the same money he would leave Roger alone. We have one day. And if he does betray me and went to Richard anyway, we will be gone within the next five minutes and he will find an empty house. Whatever Kevin thinks he can do with all my personal details is true, but he can't do anything within the next few days. It will take a while to research where our families live, and yes I packed our address book. We will stay at my parents house tonight." 

Together, shoulder to shoulder they walk into the hallway and down to the front door. John slips on his shoes and knocks on the frame of the bedroom door to alert Brian and Roger that they are leaving. 

"Why your parents house? Wouldn't it take longer for the gang to find our families because if Kevin betrays you, they have all your information and not yet ours."

Freddie shakes his head no. 

"I will ask my parents for the money."

John pauses, fingers gripping the cat cages hard. He is barely keeping himself composed, but Freddie apprecates his attempts nonethless. "What are the odds that Kevin won't betray you and actually want to make a fair deal with you?"

"Pretty high."

Freddie turns back to find Roger, somewhat less numbed up than before, if sickly pale, standing on his own.

"Kevin is not loyal to the Crew. He doesn't trust them." He talks in a low and perfectly calm voice that borerlines on unstable. "He likes money, as much as he likes safety. He will see if Freddie pays up. He might rat us out afterwards anyway, to get double the money, but if he goes to Richard now, he will risk not getting a reward at all, because he knows Richard has many men who could threaten Kevin into leaving without daring to ask for a reward."

The situation is starting to make sense to John, Freddie sees in the worried fix on his face. Brian leaves the bedroom, dressed now, and plasters himself against Rogers side. 

"We are leaving then? To Freddie's family to hide for Richards potential attack."

"And to ask them to empty all their savings." John comments dryly, looking at Freddie with a hard set of his jaw. "This is wrong, completely wrong. I can't see this working out well."

"One step at the time." Freddie says.

He hoists the cat cages and duffle bags up and opens the front door to walk into the blazing storm again. The others are right behind him, a lot less certain and equally heavy equipped. John with the rest of the cats and Brian supporting Roger. They make their way to Freddie's car and first load in the cats in the back and Roger into the backseat. Rogers eyes are unfocused and blank. John works with an equal emotionaless efficiency that helps them load the car fast in the rain without much help from the other two.

Freddie hoists himself in the passenger seat while John sits on the drivers side. He is in a much better state to drive than Freddie, they agree in quiet affirmation. 

Before John adjusts his seat and shifts the mirror for his height opposed to Freddie, he catches sight of Roger and Brian in the back, holding one another tight. John is frozen and the disappointment radiates off of him in hard waves of judgement. Freddie is the only target.

"Kevin, he is not a Crew member?" He asks tentatively into his reflection. 

Roger looks back at him, dully nodding. "He was my client. He was the client that I relapsed over, months ago, before Christmas."

Freddie's heart skips a beat. Roger had relapsed and come home bruised and marked and drugged to the bone. That was around the exact time Freddie began renting the stall from Kevin. He had shaken that mans hand, the same hand that had caused Roger suffering and gave him heroin for it in return.

"He was a client?" Brian hums, acting more casual than he must be feeling. His shaking hands are wrapped around Rogers wrists. "Kevin, the jerk that sold overpriced LSD in Uni has become that?" He grits his teeth, the anger catching him too. "Now he threathens to tell Richard about you. Typical. A hypocrite."

"Can we trust this man?" John interjects sharply. "How are we sure he isn't telling Richard right now about where Freddie lives?"

"Because he knows we have far more to lose. We are more likely to really pay." Roger chips in again, and he is heavily leaning onto Brian to stay upright. Nobody dares comment on that. 

Freddie turns to John now, he sees what he caused so clearly in him. The pain that edges in his eyes too young to have to carry their burderns all on his shoulders, tense with unresolved stress, added upon every day until one day it will be enough, and with each passing second Freddie suspects them closer to the breaking point. 

Freddie reaches out and grips Johns knee, giving it a tight squeeze. 

Johns eyes flicker up at him, shimmering rough with emotions nobdoy can properly deal with right now.

"We can't be sure of what he is doing, what we do know is that it will take a couple of days to get my parensts information, this buys us time to think about our new plan, but in safety, not in fear." He gives him another firm squeeze that makes John blink away unshed tears. John sniffles once, loud and clear, before he dares not to do so in front of them, in case it makes them lose more hope than before. Freddie apprecates him, so much, it makes his skin prickle. "You remember the way to my parents house right?"

John nods slowly, looking a little better already with the engine running and Roger promptly nodding off on Brians shoulder to the now quietly playing radio. Freddie has never seen someone sleep so suddenly, he thinks perhaps he has passed out from the stress, but he doesn't have time to dwell on those thoughts before John hits the gas and rolls Freddie's car out of their parking spot. In the background of rain and grey, they leave their house behind. The cats are meowing and the rest of them are tired and tense.

Freddie stares out the window fitfully. His hand stays on Johns leg, but his teary eyes keep solely focused on Brian and Roger in the rearview mirror, making sure they are still there while John drives them to his parents house. 

★☆★

"Farrokh!"

Jers eyes lit up when she flings herself at Freddie standing on her doorstep. He crouches down to allow his mother to hug him tight around the neck. Freddie rubs his nose against her neck, she smells the same as always and Freddie wraps his free arm around her too shoulders. 

When the hug naturally dissolves, she pulls away to give him a content, but bewildered smile. "What are you doing here so late? I didn't hear you if you phoned—" His mother leans to the side and spots behind Freddie the rest of the bunch. Her eyes widen. "... And John and Brian and—"

"Roger." Freddie fills in. 

He leans in to press a kiss to her forehead, before he shifts his eyes to the inside of the house. "Can we come in?"

"Of course, of course. My son and his friends are always welcome, you know that." His mother scoffs playfully, and ushers Freddie inside the house with a worried smile. She knows something is wrong for him to come in unannounced with a dufflebag and all the cats. John follows suit and greets her with a respectful kiss on the cheek, followed by Brian who does the same.

Freddie watches Roger stand in front of his mother, unsure how to introduce himself to her. Freddie almost interferes, but he had told his mother some of Rogers history, and knowing her, she will be spoiling him rotten by the end of the evening. 

She clasps her hands before she opens her arms wide, blocking the doorway with a big smile. 

"And this is Roger, so nice to meet you finally." She thinks out loud, before engulfing him in a bone-crushing hug. 

Rogers eyes widen in surprise, over his mothers shoulder he smiles at him. _Yes, she has phenomenal strength for such a tiny little woman_. Despite everything, Roger takes a calming breath and allows the hug to continue on until Jer pulls back and squeezes his shoulders deliberately hard. She takes a good look at his face, before she turns back to Freddie. "Oh Farrokh, you always know how to pick them out."

"Mama." Freddie huffs out a rush of air. 

She chuckles and pulls Roger inside the house to close the door and lock the storm outside. John and Brian are already done unlacing their shoes and hanging their coats on the available hooks beside the door. 

Freddie feels his mothers eyes on him while he puts his bags and the cats down and starts undressing too. She is still rubbing Rogers arm comfortingly, Roger leans into the touch, looking like a child that hasn't slept in over a week. 

"Jer? What is all this commotion?"

Freddie cringes at the call coming from the living room. It is his father, likely being interrupted watching his evening shows. 

His mother gives Rogers arm a final squeeze before she manouvers past them all to the living room. "The boys are here." 

"Now?" Bomi asks. The recliner makes a squeaky sound when his father gets out of it. He walks towards the hallway and passes his wife to check if indeed the four men are rapidly getting out of their wet clothes in his hallway. 

His eyebrows raise in surprise. He looks at Freddie directly, in a mistrustful almost disappointed manner. "What happened?" 

"We need your help. I need your help." 

Jer wriggles herself between her husband and the doorm she too frowns at his words. "Are you okay, beta?"

John sends him a warning look and Freddie dares not even to glance back at him or Roger behind him. He clears his throat. 

"I need to borrow some money... A lot of money, actually."

"But what has happened Farrokh? Were you evicted? Is the flat uninhabitable?" Bomi asks with a casted look at their cats and the bags. "Your friend looks very pale."

At this point all of them have gotten out of their coats and shoes, but this leaves them to feel exposed to Freddie's parents interrogation. Brian walks back to pull Roger towards himself and keep an arm wrapped around his middle. Bomi's eyes trail back to Freddie, like he wishes not to see the affection play out in front of him so openly. 

Freddie takes a sharp inhale of air. His fingers are numb and the pressure makes it hard for him to collect the right words to explain as little of the situation as he can.

"I got in trouble with some people and am in debt now. They want me to give them money so they will leave us alone."

Bomi pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation. Freddie's stomach drops at the sight. "How much?"

"2000."

"Farrokh!" His mother gasps. His father just gapes blankly with his eyes shut. "You must go to the police at once, they cannot blackmail you like that, it is illegal."

"I will get you the money back, I swear." Freddie hastens to add. He ignores his mothers pleading look to talk directly to his father. "This must be done, we have no other options. The money will be returned to you by me, but I must have it for tomorrow. I must do this for our safety."

Bomi exhales soundly. He looks about his age now, an old man who has seen two world wars, revolutions, immigration and too much sorrow in his life, now living in the supposed quiet of the 1970s. His father looks tired even when he steps aside and opens the door to Freddie and his boyfriends and pulling his wife to the side. 

"I will trust your judgement on this." His father says in a flat tone. "I do not agree and I do not approve. I have warned you about mingling with the wrong people and it's consequences, but I will loan you the money."

Freddie steps forward to thank his father, but he is stopped by a raised arm and another disapproving headshake. "I will write you a cheque which you may take to the bank tomorrow."

"Who is forcing you to give you so much money? Farrokh, do not listen to the conditions of a blackmailer, they will keep sucking you dry like a leech if you give in. They will keep asking money forever, do not listen to that. Go to the police." His mother begs of him with a pleading look in her eyes.

Bomi abandons her side to return to his television program.

Freddie wraps an arm round his mother in what he hopes is a comforting manner. She doesn't need it as much as he does. "Sorry ma, but I cannot. I would put everyone at risk if I did not comply."

"This is a risk too, my dear child. You must open your eyes to that." 

She shakes her head, but it is full of sad fondness with which she does it. She pulls Freddie into the living room and waves her hand for the others to follow her too. 

"But now you must all come inside and let the cats out of those cages. I still have some portions over from dinner." She smiles at Freddie, the sorrow from before perfectly masked behind her mama-smile. Freddie gives her a half smile in return and thanks her quietly, while John and Brian start opening the cat carriers and the little devils dive free and rush into the living room to venture around the unfamiliar environment. "They grow so fast do they not? Freddie feeds them well." She says proudly.

Freddie is followed into the kitchen by John and then Brian. Jer makes sure Roger is not left behind and wraps an arm around his shoulder, for which Roger has to hunch somewhat. He is still numb and spooked from what transpired a mere hour ago on the streets with Kevin, but the heat of the home brings some color back to his cheeks. And his mothers kind affection makes it hard for Roger to dissosiate himself from his body. 

Jer ushers him into the kitchen and pulls out a chair for him. Roger murmurs a grateful thank you, but Jer will have none of it and ruffles his hair.

Freddie doesn't remember what exactly he had told her about Roger, not that he was a prositute, but he had surely mentioned substance abuse, and a violent past relationship. It explains her tender caring nature being put to use for Roger. Freddie finds himself struggling not to smile, while he thinks with anyone else he would have been madly jealous. 

"If you all sit down and wait, your friend looks like he needs a good meal." Jer grins and turns back to the overstocked refrigerator.

"Ma," Freddie says with a smile, "He's a little shocked, he might not be very hungry."

"He will be when he sees my food. Won't you Roger?"

Roger blinks heavily and benefits from Johns hand that finds his across the table. Roger takes a grounding breath of air, though he seems very little relieved at knowing his parents will loan the money to them. Freddie can't blame him, he too thinks that this is only the start for a sequence of problems that are to follow. 

★☆★

They have their dinner in relative silence. To Freddie's surprise and his mothers delight, Roger gobbles up his meal like a starved man. He has to promise his mother that he _does_ feed Roger and that she should have seen him three months ago, but she won't have it. 

Despite the dire situation, they fall into a calm quiet that is only interrupted when Bomi's television show finishes and he decides to join them at the table.

Freddie can tell John and Brian are nervous with his father at the head of the table being served a cup of tea by his mother.

His boyfriends had never fallen into favor with the older man, and they are all terribly aware of the questions Bomi is likely to ask and they have no way of answering without letting on that Roger has been involved with gangs, drugs and even prostitution. 

"Thank you Jer." Bomi praises over the tea cup put into his hands by his wife. Jer bends down for a brief forehead kiss, before she is back in her seat again. Freddie locks eyes with his father. "Are you boys enjoying the food?" 

There is a resounding "Yes" from all four of them that satisfies both Bomi and Jer proudly.

"Good, good." He comments, still holding Freddie's gaze looking for answers beyond his eyes. "You want to tell me why you need 2000 quid?"

John coughs suddenly, cutting off Bomi and the tension in the room.

He splutters and reaches eagerly for the glass of water Brian offers. "Sorry— Pepper. Bit on a pepper." 

It is not enough of a distraction, because while Roger rubs soothingly between Johns shoulders, Bomi addresses Freddie again with a raised eyebrow. "Well?"

Freddie just about finishes his last forkful as the silver scrapes across the plate in the eery silence. Roger has gone completely still and John holds his coughs in with a tomato red face. 

"I cannot tell." He tells him honestly. "Someone knows information of Roger and myself, if that information gets to the wrong person, they would hurt us."

His father clears his throat and glances between Roger and Freddie with an uncomfortable shift in his seat. "Hm is this some sort of... Threat of a hate crime? Because of, you know..."

Mortified, Freddie turns his nose to his plate. 

"Uh not exactly."

"But something like that?" He insists. 

Freddie gets a look from Brian, asking him without vocalizing out loud, to play along. It is hard to play along with his father trail of bigotted thoughts. He can't even say it out loud, that Freddie is a homosexual and lives with his three boyfriends. 

He must swallow his pride, at least for the man that will loan him enough money to buy a new car. 

"Yes, dad. Something like that."

The lame confession causes his father to sigh through his nostrils and his mother to look away. "Farrokh how many times have I told you since you were a little boy not to let these people bully you? Hm?"

He wishes the floor would swallow him whole. 

"Many times."

"Too many times. For the life of me— have I raised you so poorly for you not to be able to stand up for yourself? Not even once." Bomi scoffs.

Jer glances at him rapidly. "Bomi."

"Do not try to reason with me now, we put him on wrestling, he wants piano. We put him in boarding school, he comes crying at his mothers skirt. This is a pattern in your life, I do not care what your _orientation_ might entail, but this is no way to live."

Just as Jer is about to truly interfere, Roger sits up a little and draws all eyes on him. He raises his hand for permission speak. 

Bomi frowns. "Uh, yes?"

"Freddie is protecting me, eh, sir. It is me who they are after."

Roger smiles weakly at Freddie, before his eyes go back to Bomi and Jer. "You see, I lost my mother when I was really young and became homeless. I hung out with the wrong people for a roof over my head and ended up in a rough relationship. This is the man Freddie saved me from and who is trying to get information about my new life. The person who is blackmailing us might tell on us anyway, that is why we left the apartment tonight. You see."

"I see..." Bomi says.

Jer this time does not let anything else negative be added. She jumps to her feet and clasps her hands together. "That is so very brave of you to share Roger, thank you. We welcome you with much pleasure and will loan you anything we can spare if neccesary." 

Freddie lets out a rush of air in relief for the end of the tables tension. Jer gets around to gather everyone's plates, scoffing when Brian tries to help by stacking his plate on top of Johns. "None of that. Why don't you Brian, show John and Roger where we keep the spare blankets and pillows and start making the living room comfortable for tonight. You know where the linen closet is, right?"

"I do, yes." Brian smiles, unaware that Jer is skillfully separating Freddie from the bunch in front of their very eyes. 

Jer leans over to pinch his cheek. "Good, not much has changed so you will find it. Grab anything you need, you are all at home here."

It takes willpower for Bomi not to roll his eyes or at least sigh in exasperation at her never ending hospitality. But he too moves from the table when Brian drags John and Roger towards the stairs. Freddie's father kisses his wife on the cheek and nods solemly at Freddie before he disappears into the hallway, likely to read before bed like he has always done since Freddie could remember. 

He knows he is on dishwashing duty when two yellow gloves and a sponge hit him in the face and his mothers back is already turned to him.

They are effectively alone. He must give her credits for that.

He joins her at the counter and starts filling the sink with warm water, while she scrapes the remains of the food into the bin. 

"It is so lovely seeing you my son, even under these circumstances, I miss you too much."

"Sorry I have been busy." He cringes. Remembering the times he used to come for tea every Sunday, even join her at the Temple when she is insistent enough. "I miss you too."

"Don't fret my child, we are together now and that is what counts."

She hands him the first dish to clean, and Freddie obediently starts scrubbing with the soap under the running faucet. Behind him he hears Brian, John and Roger return with in their arms various blankets and pillows to set up for tonight. It won't be too comfortable sleeping on the carpet, but it will be a lot better than waiting anxiously in their own beds to be possibly attacked by Richard or his handymen. 

Freddie is distracted by Rogers genuine smile when their eyes meet. Tiffany is curling around his ankle when he pauses, pillows clutched to his chest. Roger had voluntarily opened up to his parents about his horrid past, enough to make them take the heated blame off Freddie. Roger is admirable for his courage, Freddie reminds himself. Even if he cannot go to the police. 

Only when his mother hip-checks him, Freddie blinks himself out of Rogers bedazzling gaze. Roger walks on to join Brian and John to set up a fort, while Freddie turns back to his mother and takes the next dish she offers.

"Sorry I got, distracted." He answers honestly.

She hums in a knowing way only a mother could. She always has this twinkle in her eye and Freddie knows he is in for it.

"I like Roger. He is very pretty."

"Mama." Freddie laughs in surprise, and Jer shrugs, unabashed. 

"Well it is true. And I know you know it." 

He is a little mortified and hides his face in his arms. "Stop that, he'll hear you."

"And so what?" Jer says a little louder, struggling to keep her bubbling giggles down at Freddie's wide eyes expression. "He should know I think he is cute. Roger is very cute!"

"Mama!"

★☆★

Freddie jolts awake when he rolls over to his side and finds the spot beside him empty. 

They had gone to bed with Roger next to him. To find him gone sends Freddie right into panic. He pulls back the blankets back and reveals the Rogers place on the carpet cold. 

Brian and John are sound asleep, entangled in their own hug withJohns face in Brians neck and Brians leg slung over John in a forever embrace.

In his panic, Freddie reaches across to shake them both awake to alarm them of Rogers absence, but a hushed giggle and a heated shush coming from the kitchen stops Freddie dead in tracks. He has the advantage of the couch hiding the view of their makeshift bed arrangement. Freddie rolls onto his belly and peaks around the corner to see that no other than his mother has whisked Roger away to sit with her at the table.

They are both dressed in their pajamas, nursing a steaming cup of tea between them both. 

Rogers back is turned to Freddie, he can only see half his mothers tired but pleased face. She has wrapped one of her hand knitted blankets around his trembling shoulders. 

"I have always felt terribly sorry to hear from Freddie how much you have gone through."

Roger puts his cup down, somewhat taken aback from what Freddie can tell. Seeing them together in the calm and quiet, accompanied just by the light of a single candle in the middle of the table, Freddie allows the panic to vanish from his body and listen in on Rogers sighed out answer. 

"You musn't feel sorry for me. As you can see, I am okay."

"That is a very good way of looking at it." Jer smiles proudly and she adds another spoonful of sugar to her tea. Freddie knows it is a sign of her trying to stay awake. "But my mother-hen instincts do not like that one bit. Especially not with the business Freddie doesn't want to talk about. I am so terribly worried. And sorry. You cannot blame me."

Roger presumably smiles. Freddie hopes so at least, to comfort his mother. 

"I wouldn't blame you, sorry. Of course not."

"No you wouldn't. Such a polite boy as yourself, you are much too kind. I am so grateful to have you alongside Brian and John, Freddie sure knows how to pick the right friends, but I already told him that."

"Right," Roger chuckles in the breezy way he does. " _Friends_."

"Oh you and your generation. I wouldn't know what else to call it." Jer smiles kindly and peers down at Rogers cup across the table. "Yours is nearly empty, would you like another share?"

"I shouldn't keep you up for longer, I'd feel bad if I would." Roger declines politely and brings his cup to his lips to finish it.

Jer sits back down and smiles, also reaching for her own cup to drink it empty. Freddie thinks she looks awfully tired, but that could also be because of the shadows the candle casts across the dark room. She is undeniably fond of Roger, from the way she keeps glancing at him from over the brim of her drink. Freddie knows she pities him, something Roger would have found offensive with anyone else, but from her strangle endearing. But is is also fascination Jer has for Roger, even when they both get up and Roger gathers the cups for them both to leave in the sink. She watches his every move with clasped hands and loving sparkle in her eyes. 

One of the cats, Freddie can't see who in the dark, curls itself around Rogers leg, listening to their please, he bends down and picks up the rascal to hug against his chest.

He stops in front of Jer, now Freddie can see some of his face too and he carries a tiredness in his face that concerns Freddie nearly as much as Kevin.

"I think this is where we say goodnight."

"I think so yes." Jer agrees, but not before reaching out and scratching the cat behind the ears to make the little darling purr in appreciation. Rogers face softens at the sight and he holds the cat down lower for Jer to reach. 

It feels almost indecent to spy in on their intimate moment together. Something warm in his chest settles, knowing his two beloveds get along and find ease between them without even a nudge.

Roger bends down to drop the cat to the floor again when Jer finishes petting them. He waves in goodbye and Jer walks over to the hallway, both of them slow in their exhaustion.

Freddie is about to roll back onto his side and pretend to be asleep when Roger comes back to bed, but then his mother stops midway in the door and turns back to Roger with a thoughtful frowns between her aging brows. 

"Roger?"

Roger spins around too. "Yes?"

Jer crosses her arms over her chest as she says, "You know, Darling? No matter how scary it may be, sometimes you have to face problems headfirst, or they will keep coming back." 

The expression on Rogers face is unreadable and he lets out a dry chuckle that causes Jers eyebrow to raise. 

"What?" She asks a little taken aback.

Roger shakes his head and smiles sadly. "No, nothing. Nothing... It's just, that's something my mum would have said." 

Jers eyes soften again and she returns Rogers smile. "Well I'm a little bit your mother now I suppose." She unhooks her arms and turns away before she can see the reaction on Rogers perplexed face as she walks towards the stairs. "Good night Roger."

Roger stands still in the middle of the room for a few moments longer. 

Long after his mother has moved upstairs and closed her bedroom door does Rogers body come back to motion. Freddie quickly rolls over and pretends to be asleep, just in time to feel Roger crawl up beside him and pull Freddie's arm around his chest when he cuddles against his side with a tired exhale. Freddie forces his body to still completely while Roger makes himself comfortable, even though Freddie wants nothing more than to run his fingers through Rogers hair and give him a long, lasting kiss. 

★☆★

In the morning they clean up their makeshift back before his parents come downstairs. They work in exhausted quiet, none of them had caught much quality sleep under their circumstances. 

Freddie keeps catching John cast worried glances at an uncharacteristically reserved Roger. When asked, Roger replies that he has a weird knot in his stomach, and John smiles empathatically and makes him tea instead when for the rest of them he sets coffee.

By the time Brian is working on the omelettes for breakfast and Freddie has finished putting the sheets they used into the laundry, does his mother come downstairs, followed by his disgrunteled father.

"Good morning." Freddie greets when they pass each other in the hall.

His father nods once, curt and firm. "Morning Farrokh. Let me have my morning drink then I will write you that cheque."

"Thank you." Freddie sighs, grateful that his father had not changed his mind during the night. "Our appointment is only at night, so there is no hurry."

"Better not delay." His father grunts on his way into the living room.

Jer is hot on his heel, but pauses to clutch Freddie's hands in her own. "You will be here for lunch too than?" She asks with a hopeful smile. 

Freddie vows to himself to visit her more often. He squeezes her hands and nods. "Yes, we will only have to go to the bank for the money, we can stay here until tonight, if that is okay?"

"Yes it is! Of course it is." Jer grins. "Now come, it smells like breakfast is being served."

"Brian made eggs." Freddie elaborates on the scent that comes from the kitchen. He is pulled towards the source by his mother and put down at the kitchen table alongside Roger and John just as Brian comes out of the kitchen with their plates and a proud smile. 

"Perfect timing— Good morning, Jer."

"Oh Brian, such a delightful cook you are." She smiles brightly and takes the two plated from Brian, one for herself which she puts on the table, and the other for Bomi, who has his breakfast in front of the television, so he can watch the morning news before work. 

Jer carries over the plate to Bomi, while Brian serves the rest of them their shares in front of their noses. None of them are paying attention to his mother and father in the living room, not with their rumbling stomaches and constant yawning. That is, until Jer lets out a shocked gasp.

"Oh have mercy." Freddie turns in time to see her clutch her chest at the murmuring coming from the television set. His father has a sad grimace on his face too. "Those poor people." 

"What is wrong?" Freddie asks, jumping off his seat with the others following behind him to catch what is being broadcasted so early in the morning. 

Jer walks over to the television to turn the volume up.

Freddie pulls Roger close against his side when the BBC newcaster narrates the rapid moving images of racing cars in the dark, tangled limbs, ambulances and blood. 

Sickness twists in his stomach and Freddie represses throwing up when Richard Baker reads otloud that, "There has been a fatal shoot-out on Menom Road. Local residents report seeing two driving cars at around two in the morning, point guns at the street and shoot at anyone in sight. Twelve people have been rushed to the hospital in critical conditions and six have died on the scene. Most victims were working prostitutes. The police have requested to avoid the road while investigating the crime scene. The perpetrators are yet to be identified or found." 

Freddie grasps onto Roger just in time, before he slinks to the floor. 

★☆★  
 _  
"Roger?"_

_Imogen sighs when all she gets is a mournful groan. She looks up at Janice, who gives her a knowing 'I told you so' look._

_Imogen knocks on the bedroom door again, but this time a little louder._

_"Roger, sweetheart... We just wanted to check if you're okay?"_

_"M'fine." He lies, barely sounding convinced or awake._

_Janice sighs and pushes Imogen aside at her loss of patience. "Roger, it's just me and Imogen right now. Richard is gone for the day. We want to get you some food and clean you up a bit. How does that sound?"_

_There is a long pause, Janice again tries the doorknob, but it won't twist from the outside without a key._

_"Roger?"_

_"He's not there?" He asks, sounding a little more awake now. Imogen feels her heart clench in her chest at how small he sounds._

_"No dear, he's working now. If you can open the door we'll give you a hand."_

_"If you want." Janice adds needlessly. Imogen shakes her head at her, knowing Roger since he was a young child that the option to retreat might actually me used, but Janice seems convinced of her method. "We just want to make sure you're alright."_

_It takes some convincing and a little waiting, before they hear the quiet sound of staggering footsteps from inside the room. A moment later the doorknob rattles, before Roger finally manages to get the door open._

_Imogen barely holds back the initial reaction to the state Roger is in. Janice takes a sharp inhale that leaves her tense and rigid._

_Roger leans against the doorpost with his bruised eyes drooping dangerously under the weight of his eyelids. In only a matter of days he has lost a significant amount of weight and his pale skin suggests sickness due to his lack of sun or vitamins. The first thing they must do is give him water, his cracked lips and dry peeling skin suggest he has been dehydrated._

_Janice is the first to react and grabs Roger by the arm to usher him into the bathroom across the hallway. For the fierce anger in her deep dark eyes, she handles him with admirable tenderness as she forces his limp body from one room into the next. Imogen helps him sit upright on the closed toilet seat. Roger struggles even with that and nearly faints in a sudden dizzy spell that could have ended in a nasty head wound, if it weren't for Imogen grabbing him before his head colided with the showerwall._

_"How could he leave him like that?" Janice hisses, busying herself filling a cup of water for Roger to drink, straight from the tap. Imogen doubts he will take nte of the limey taste. "That prick. He is just a child."_

_Imogen sits down on the edge of the edge of the shower to stroke Rogers uncombed matted hair from his face. She will run a brush to it after they have cleaned him up a little._

_She takes the glass Janice offers and holds it to Rogers lips._

_He is still somewhat dazed from whatever he has been exposed to the last few days. From the looks of it, he's lacked food, water, sleep and medical care for the nasty burnmark on his arm. She thinks he was too young to be branded at his age. She knows it would have terrified Winnifred._

_"I think he might have a fever." Imogen tells Janice in a soft voice, in regards to Rogers state._

_He looks at her through his glassy gaze, but he doesn't say anything while eagerly gulping down as much water as he can._

_Janice crouches in front of Roger and gently takes his arm and turns it to take a look at the fresh branding. At the first touch she curses, immediately and turns her head to Imogen. "He is burning up."_

_"I know." Imogen adds nervously while she pushes back the mess of sweat soaked hair from his forehead. "It got infected, didn't it?"_

_"Richard is a fucking dick."_

_Janice can reach for the drawer without having to get up and takes out the rubbing alcohol and cotton pads. She also grabs an old strip of antibiotics they haven't replaced in several months, but they hope is still effective._

_"It hurts a little." Roger adds delirously. His hands are shaking where they hold the glass between his palms. Imogen takes it away before he can drop it._

_While Janice readies the alcohol for the arm, Imogen turns Rogers chin and gives him a deceivingly calm smile. "Rog, your brandmark has gotten a little infected, we are gonna get rid of the worst, but it will sting a little."_

_"Alright."_

_"Alright." Imogen smiles tightly, holding back tears. If she had possession over the heroin she would give him a shot before this._

_But such luxuries are beyond them._

_Janice holds Rogers wrist in place and casts a warning look Imogens way before she starts dabbing away the pus and fluids that had gathered around the wound._

_Roger gurgles in pain, his eyes filling with tears, but he seems too worn out to struggle against her touch._

_Janice works as quickly as possible while Imogen rubs his shoulder and combs her fingers through his hair soothingly. "Shh, it's alright darling. It's alright." She hushes when he cries in agony. "Mine got infected too when I first got here. They often do. It isn't easy to heal." She sympathizes. "But you will be alright, just like me, and Janice and the rest."_

_It is a blessing when Janice finishes up and instead pops Roger two of the antibiotics pills. With Imogens help he downs them without a hitch, only that of his crying._

_Winnifred would have hated seeing him like this. They hate it too._

_Imogen feels the overwhelming need to cry along with Roger. Everything after his mothres death has gone very fast, and nobody could have forseen how well Richards little plan would work out._

_Within the month of her death he has Roger addicted to the drugs, marked as his prostitute and sleeping in his bed every night. She doesn't like to dwell too much on his age, being sixteen years old and taken out of school for this life, is about every persons worst nightmare._

_"He needs a shower." Janice says as she cleans up after herself._

_Imogen has yet to stop stroking Rogers tear stained face. He hangs onto her like a lifeless ragdoll, which is not far from reality. "Yes he does. He needs to get back before Richard gets back."_

_His name feels evil even on her own tongue. Roger shudders, the fever has left him cold despite his body flaring up with heat. Janice gets Roger a dry biscuit to suck on while they get the shower ready for Roger. They decide on a medium heat with Imogen sitting where she is now and Roger propped up against her and the wall, while Janice can use the showerhead to flush him clean._

_They first peel the smelling sweat soaked clothes off his body to clean later today. Imogen helps a groaning and shivering Roger sit in the shower, with her as a pillar, while Janice stands outside with the shower head._

_The first spray of water comes as a surprise and Roger huddles away from it, until he finds it is quite warm and inviting._

_Janice leans closer to get his hair properly wet so Imogen can start washing him down with a washcloth, making fast work of scrubbing grime and dried fluids away while mindful of his wound, before she uses a brush to work through the tangles of his long sandy hair. She tries to smile while she works. The tender touches seem to have an immediate effect on Roger._

_"That's nice, isn't it." Janice comments kindly. "There is nothing a hot shower can't make better."_

_Imogen smiles and feels glad when the knots in Rogers hair get worked out. "He will feel a lot better when the infection goes away."_

_"I don't understand Richard." Janice scoffs. "He wants Roger all for himself and then treats him like so. Does he think infections come and go like storm clouds? If he gave a shit he would have let Roger get checked out."_

_"In his reality he thinks he is doing what he knows best."_

_"What is best for his pride perhaps. He can't rock up to any hospital with that wound, staff would be bound to ask questions why a minor is deliberately brandmarked."_

_Imogen nods sadly, she doesn't know how to answer but luckily Janice doesn't expect her to. "At least he got us, right."_

_Janice huffs, like it is a hardship for Roger to be stuck with them. Imogen must admit that it is not best case scenario to be at the mercy of two drug addicted prostitutes, but it is better than nothing. Janice turns off the showerhead when Roger has gone back to shivering and Imogen has cleaned him as thoroughly as she can in their limited time. Under the armpits, between his toes, under his fingernails, scrubbing his scalp and the back of his neck._

_She helps Roger wrap into one of the few available towels. He shivers all the way, until he can curl himself in her arms and rest his head on her shoulder, while she tries to dry him down._

_"You are not making this very easy." She chuckles._

_"Sorry." He mutters, making both Janice and Imogen smile, while wrapping a second towel around his head. A luxury they won't tell to the other prostitutes. "That's nice."_

_Janice casts Imogen a warm smile, despite her hardened exterior. Imogen smiles back and can't resist rocking Roger in her arms a little where they sit on the cold tiles. It is a bit of a hastle and it bled heavily into the hours Janice and herself really need for sleep, but Imogen does not have to think twice to confirm that this was the better option than any quality sleep she could be missing._

_"How about we get you into some warm clothes and bring you to bed?"_

_"Yes please." Roger sighs soundly, whilst sinking deeper into her touch._

_Imogen turns her head up to Janice, they share one last look before together they help Roger get ready for bed without him having to move a muscle. And when his body is nearly too heavy for him to carry and his skin too hot to touch, Imogen reminds herself of Winnifred and what she would have given to be here helping her son today. That is enough to will Janice and herself through the task without as much as a hitch, carrying Roger back down the hallway and tucking him under a fresh sheet._

_He is asleep before his head hits the pillow, but still Imogen kisses him goodbye on the forehead before they leave him in Richards room._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀 
> 
> _Now_ it’s going to get interesting


	32. Of Identity and Abandonment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There has been a shooting on Menom Road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KDKFKDKSKS
> 
> SHIT HITS
> 
> THE 
> 
> FAN
> 
> (Also a near 10k chapter 🥵)

The radio is turned off on their way to the hospital. 

All the stations are discussing the incident that had happened the night before. A shockwave has gone through London and in the afternoon the Prime Minister will be addressing the violence during a press conference. 

Over the news, the police have asked anyone with more information regarding the shooting to come forward. 

The general consensus is that a rival gang attacked the prostitutes to harm business or perhaps for revenge. There is no agreement or information about the motive, the attackers, or identity of either gangs, but it is enough for the boys to form a story in their heads. 

Not everything makes sense yet to them, but that didn't stop Roger from demanding they get in the car immediately and drive over to the hospital where the wounded are being treated.

No names or pictures had come up on the television, but Roger assumes that from the six people killed, he must know them all, given that he has worked with the same people since he was sixteen years old.

"Hey,"

Roger glances sideways when Freddie nudges his ribs. He finds it hard to focus his eyes on his face. He has forgotten his glasses at Jer and Bomis house. "Hm?"

Freddie lays a soothing hand on Rogers shoulder, adding weight to his body. He leans in close as if the other two in the front seats wouldn't hear what they said in the stiffening quiet. "We can still turn around and go home. There is no shame in wanting to turn around."

"I need to know." Roger says curtly, because if he'd say another word he knows his voice would break and he'd burst into tears.

Freddie sighs long and chest deep. He leans back into his own chair but keeps his hand on Rogers shoulder. Roger apprecates the gesture, even though he physically feels numb all the way down to his toes.

In the front seat John is fidgeting. Brian too, has yet to say a word about the whole ordeal, but through the bravado he looks extremely nervous. 

Roger is scooted all the way against the door for as far as his body could curl into itself. He watches John through the small space between the front seat and the side of the car and sees the younger man grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. 

He can't see Johns face from here, but he can guess what he must look like. With that pinched look of unforgiveness that is still trying to work through why Freddie and Roger had sneaked out the night they encountered Kevin by accident in the first place. Roger still owes him a big apology and he has no idea how he will ever pay the money back to Freddie's parents, but for now his focus cannot be spread thinner than guessing which of his friends have died tonight. 

He needs to get to the hospital and see who of his loved ones has been caught in the crossfire that never should have reached them.

Roger suspects they are nearly there when John exhales through his nose and glances at Roger through the wing mirror when they stop at a red light. 

"This is the most dangerous move we could possibly make right now." He says, as if he had not said so a ten times before getting into the car.

Rogers face is stiff with cold. He tries for a change of expression, but he can't move a muscle. 

"I need to see if they're okay."

"They aren't." John says. "They were shot at. They are not okay and no matter how much that sucks, it is not a reason to walk right into the lions den. Richard is bound to be hanging around there. Someone is bound to be keeping an eye on the prostitutes and recognize you the moment you walk into the threshold."

"They can't attack in a public space like that." Roger mumbles, but a part of him doesn't care even if he were seen by Andrei or another of the traitors who were unable to protect the girls working last night.

He wonders if Kirsten is okay. And Janice. Pearl. Imogen. 

Roger grew up with these women, most of which were there already when he and his mother moved into Richards apartment. Women who looked after Roger when his mother was out working, or when she died tried to fill her shoes as much as that was possible to begin with. 

John can try to understand, but he wouldn't. There is a loyalty between the lot of them in their shared trauma and their need of each other to survive the conditions of their lives under Richard.

"I don't understand why we should take the risk. Not when we are going to ask that Kevin to keep us a secret for two thousand goddamn pounds. What is the use in that?" John asks loudly. Even in the fogged glass Roger can see his face has gone red with frustration. Any other day the anger would have had an affect on him, now Roger stores it inside of him to contemplate about on another day. "We have been living in miserable circumstances for months, trying to keep you safe from your abusive-ex, who is also a fucking gang member, but this week we have decided to throw all of that out of the window? Just because you and Freddie say so? I should turn this car back around and drive away until you have come to your senses."

"John." Freddie interjects with one simple word. And John shuts up. 

They continue the drive ahead. Roger is not worried John might turn the car around, not when they are almost there. 

"John makes a good point." Brian says after a short moment of silence only countered by the zooming of cars outside the windows. "Is this wise? Really? After the lengths we have gone to avoid a run-in with Richard or anyone associated with him. Have we really thought about this?"

"My friends are dead."

"I know-- I _know_ , but--"

"They are my friends and they are dead, dying and suffering." Roger retorts without looking any of them in the eye. "I'll walk if you don't want to come."

"It is not me who I am concerned about." John sighs with a finality that leaves the tension in the car as a thick blanket weighted with sorrow. 

Roger wants to be in the hospital, he knows they won't do anything to him there, not if they are in public and the Crew wishes to stay hidden from the police. He knows that in the times of an attack the leaders of the gang will have gathred together in a safe place if they could. To talk numbers, theories and revenge. 

He leans his cheek against the cold window. His heart is beating so fast it feels like it is completely still at the same time. Causing the sensation of a heart attack.

Freddie's hand trails down Rogers arm until he finds his hand to lace their fingers together. Roger allows the touch, but only because the warmth of his hand is the first real warm thing he experiences since he heard of the incident. 

Roger squeezes back, but only to reassure Freddie that he hasn't completely mentally checked out. 

★☆★

Roger vaguely hears John (of all his boyfriends) jog after him when Roger dashes through the doors of the hospital and sprints up to the reception desk. She is caught off guard by the sudden whoosh of wind and Roger stopping abruptly with his hands on her desk.

"I was wondering if you have someone here by the name of Imogen?" Roger asks. And when the woman face doesn't change from the current confused set, Roger adds with a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Or Kirsten, maybe... Or Janice?"

The woman radiates sympathy with a sudden understanding that crosses her face after assessing the state he is in, she leans forward on her elbows and kindly asks, "Do you have any last names for me, sir?"

Roger panics, because no, he doesn't have any last names. He has lived with these women for most of his teen and adult life, but he has no clue what their names are or if they even--

With a rush of air, John is suddenly beside him and joins him by the desk. 

He must have heard the exchange, because he puts a hand on Rogers back and takes control of the conversation for him. "They are the possible victims of the Menom Road shooting. My friend here, the victims might be family."

"Oh." The woman nods hastily, clutching her necklace. She glances back at Roger with a sorry expression. "Well, we got most of them still in intensive care, some are getting surgery as we speak, we haven't been able to identify people or take any names. Feel free to go there and see if your family is there. It is right down the hallway, you will see a sign, it is easy enough to find. The police will be there too, they might ask a couple of questions before they let you inside, just a warning, because of the implications of the crime."

"Right." Roger swallows. 

John squeezes his arm and nods at the receptionist at once. "Thank you very much. Thank you." He says, before he starts dragging Roger away and down the hall. 

He is at all times cautious and looking around them for potential danger, while he leads Roger along to the intensive care unit. Roger sees nobody that might be part of the Crew. Nobody is paying them any mind to begin with. 

Somehow that isn't very reassuring.

He should be grateful that none of Richards men are here to see him and discover him, but at least six of their female workers have been killed and nobody is minding the ones brought to the hospital? Roger feels a sick twist to his stomach at the thought of that level of betrayal. 

John tugs him closer against himself and slows down speed when the policemen dressed in dark blue come into view down the grey hallway. Roger pulls his arms around himself and takes a deep breath when John gives him a one armed squeeze. 

"Alright?"

"No." Roger swallows. His legs are starting to slow down at their own accord. His throat begins to close up. "I don't want to talk to them. I don't know what to say."

"Ask for names and say they are your friends."

"What if I get arrested?" Roger digs his heels into the slippery grey floor. Suddenly he is understanding exactly why John was unhappy to visit the hospital. They don't know what the police will think, if the Crew will be there in disguise. Maybe someone is attacking Freddie and Brian in the car outside when they saw Roger exiting it. Air stutters out of Rogers windpipe. He claws at his throat and his other hand grasps Johns arm. "John. John, I don't think I made the right decision here. We should go home."

"Roger, we have come this far."

"Someone of the Crew might be inside with them. The police will ask questions. I wanna go home. I think I want to go home."

Tears well up in his eyes but he blink them away rapidly.

John searches his eyes for certainty, but he certainly can't find any. 

He then decides not to keep them in the middle of the hallway drawing unnecessary attention. He pulls them to the side to help Roger get situated against the wall for support. 

Roger uses the opportunity to bend forwards with his hands on his knees to breathe, letting the weight of his head dangle. John steps up close and crowds him protectively against the wall, shielding him from view. He rubs his shoulders, trying to keep himself calm for both of them. 

"I know what I said in the car, I know," John soothes in a tone almost unrecognizable. "But you are already here and there is police right there to keep people from doing anything sketchy to the victims. If one of Richards men is there, we will make a run for it, nothing he can do without interference from the cops. Okay?"

"We will look as suspects." Roger says miserably, but while he might have a point, John does too. 

Despite being in public, John pushes Rogers hair behind his ear and tips his chin up with something that could be described as the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. 

"If anything goes wrong, we hide behind the cops. If the cops ask too many questions, let me handle it and you act stupid, okay?"

"That wouldn't be too hard." Roger huffs impatiently at the intense eye contact John holds.

John, like him, yearns to lean in for a kiss, but stops himself before his neck muscles have moved an inch. He strokes Rogers chin once, a touch that can be excused for many reasons, before letting go altogether. 

"You need to do this. You need to see your friends, that is what you told me and that is what I will hold you to, alright?"

"Okay."

"Are you ready to keep going? We really are almost there."

They both glance sideways and note that the intensive care unit is indeed only a few meters away. Just far enough for Roger not to see any details on the policemens clothes or faces, but close enough to recognize their uniformed figures as people.

They lot of them guard the door. That much becomes clearer when John and Roger approach and upon them nearing in, the door gets barricaded from them.

At least three cops are on duty outside the unkt. Inside, visible through a small window in the door, the room is semi-dark and there are rows of beds in the off-white space, another officers appear to be patroling up and down the pathway. 

John tries to wrestle past them, but they won't budge, Roger is a little mortified at his tactic, his years as a prostitute have taught him to avoid police officers, not confront them. But when Johns annoyed expression is met with a confused downcasted look by a much taller mustached policeman, his plan becomes more clear.

"Excuse me? Can we pass?"

"And who are you?" The man asks, sounding taken aback by Johns abrasive tone.

John scoffs, "My friend here possibly knows some of the victims. We heard they are in critical conditions, we must have a right to see them."

"Is this another sick reporter scam?" The policeman flat tones, glaring between the two of them. "Some of us have actual jobs to do, you know."

Roger can't see past his shoulder far enough to recognize anyone in the beds. They are simply too far for his eyesight, or wrapped and covered in bandages and blankets. Worry continues to rise in his chest and he does not want to crumble down in front of this man if he can help it. He pulls on Johns arm. 

John gives him a knowing look that lasts less than a second, but Roger still catches it.

"We are not reporters, thank you very much. Please, my friend is really disordered from the ordeal. He just needs to check if his cousin isn't in the bunch. He really does."

One look at Roger makes the policeman change faces from apprehensive to pitying. He glances at his colleague, who at the sight of Roger, shrugs. "Seems plausible." He eyes up John too. Noting they are underdressed and not carrying anything on them. "They don't look like reporters to me."

"Hm."

It takes a confirming grunt from the third policeman, before they step aside for John and Roger to pass their heavy bulks.

Roger keeps close to John when the younger man cautiously makes his way into the room. From the start there has been no sign of one of Richards men being there and having an eye on things. Once they actually are inside the intensive care unit, there is a sea of white light, beds and nurses. Followed by an overwhelming noise mix of beeps and pumps that set Rogers teeth on edge. The room smells of copper, which resembles blood. Something about the smell is also distinctively _hospital_ , a smell nobody is truly a fan of. 

"Come on." John pushes Roger in the direction of the first bed on the left. Where a woman lays on her side and she appears heavily pregnant. Roger suddenly realizes that there aren't just Menon Road shooting victims on the unit, but also other women. He does not recognize the pregnant woman and she is too far in her own mind to notice his intensive staring.

The woman in the bed next to her is still stiff as a plank, laying on her back and staring up at the ceiling with unblinking eyes. If it weren't for the heart monitor, Roger would have assumed she was dead. 

Her wounds are hiddenunderneath the blanket wrapped aorund her torso. He vaguely recognizes her, but not by name. He knows he has seen her in the past.

But at his approuch she makes no acknowledgement. When he murmurs a hello, she does not reply back, not even by blinking. Roger assumes she is one of them, it'd make sense with the sunken eyes, early wrinkles and yellowing skin from her abuse of drugs and poor health. 

They round her bed and pass that person to her left when they see it is a chubby-cheeked teenage girl. 

With each bed they pass they are being watched like a hawk by the patroling policemen. Roger does not like being watched like that, but knowing the girls ar being looked after by them is at least a small relief. 

The following bed holds the first person does recognize by name, he strides over to her side and grabs her open hand in his. The sudden touch causes her to inhale sharply, but at the sight of his face, she relaxes and melts back into the pillows of her bed, tears swimming in her deep brown eyes. "Roger." She rasps and coughs. "It is you."

"Pearl, I'm so sorry."

"Can't believe they shot me. They fucking shot me." She grumbles and with the hand that is holding Rogers she points at her shoulder with a disgruntled face, pulled in a pained grimace. "They removed the bullet from me shoulder. And one from the knee. Might never use them the same again, sons of bitches."

Pearl loved to dance, Roger remembers. She used to sneak music into the house or sit with homeless people playing an instrument so she could dance. 

He feels Johns comforting presence behind himself. He uses his energy to send back to Pearl and her squinting eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." She sighs, she turns her face away when the pain becomes too much to hide. "Thank God you got out-- thank God."

He doesn't know what to say. She isn't even looking at him when she smiles sideways. "Get the fuck out of here before these cops get a whiff of you."

"I'll leave, I promise." Roger rubs his thumb over her knuckles. Her hand is colder than he thinks should be possible under living conditions. "I just need to know who was working last night. I need to know who got hurt. Do you know?"

"Anna..." Pearl remembers, her brows squint together trying to remember. "Anna 'nd Melissa. Not Richards those two. Fiona. You know her."

"And Richards?" Roger asks.

Pearl won't meet his eye. 

"What about Richards, Pearl?" 

At his insistence she sighs, and rolls onto her side, the one that presumably is uninjured. The movement still causes her to hiss and exhale through her nose. She squeezes Rogers hand 

"Fuck... Janice. Janice was there. Robyn, Holly. And Imogen."

Rogers breath gets stuck in his throat. He turns to John, who in return shrugs helplessly. Roger holds Pearls hand tighter and he asks, "Did you see who got out?"

Shaking her head, Pearl sinks back into the bedding. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. It's okay, I'll find out. I'll go ask around."

It pains her to speak and Roger knows from the tap on his shoulder that John agrees she should be left to rest. "I'm sorry."

"I'll tell you if I see anything. You rest up now, get better."

"Those bastards." Pearls eyes flutter shut when Roger brushes his lips against the back of her hand. "Fucking bastards left us to die."

He continues to hold her until she stops talking and falls into a fitful slumber. Roger suspects she has been heavily medicated. He drops her hand back onto the bed and tugs it under the blanket. He moves away with Johns assistance, and together they move onto the next bed.

Roger recognizes the girl as Melissa, a prostitute, but not one of Richards. She is fast asleep and breathing heavily, her lungs gurgle and crackle in an uneasy fit. Her mask covered face is bruised and scrapped from a fall. Roger pauses at the foot of her bed when a nurse passes him and John to tend to Melissa, her movement is frantic and gentle, but there is a serious set in her face. Roger remembers he is on the intensive care, which means the girls here are not out of danger.

He doesn't want to disturb her, but he has many questions nevertheless. 

Luckily John steps in for him when Rogers words fail him. "Excuse us, but do you know if she's to be okay?"

The nurse gives them a long somber expression while she checks the dressings around Melissa's face. It isn't that Roger knew her very well, but the sight of her bleeding wounds is still shocking to witness. 

"We aren't sure yet, sorry. The bullet got lodged in a rib, her lungs got bruised up badly with the fall, and there is a likely head trauma." She smiles at Roger, altough it is tight around the edges. "Are you family?"

"Yes." Roger whispers.

"Well, friends with some and family with others." John hastens to explain. "Is the rest here? We haven't heard any names. We don't know if the people that we know got hurt or not. Or how they are doing. If there is anything you could tell us..."

The nurse holds up her hand and speeds across the room, only to come back with a clipboard and her glasses perched up on her nose. 

She seems sympathetic towards them, to Rogers relief. The policemen are keeping an eye out on the exchange. 

"From those asleep, unconcious or brought for an emergency surgery we couldn't get a name." She explains. "Nobody has died in the hospital yet, but some have passed on the scene, we haven't been able to indentify them." 

Roger swallows with difficulty around the thick lump stuck in his throat. "Are they here?"

"The bodies?" The nurse asks, Roger nods once. She bops her head yes. "Would you be able to identify some, you think?" 

John is watching him like a hawk. When Roger takes a long pause to think before he answers, John steps in. "If you can't do it right now, you don't have to."

"It would help, if you could." The nurse interjects kindly. "Only one Kirsten and a Joy and..." She glances at her clipboard, "Janice, have been transferred to regular rooms, because they have been stable. Do you know them?"

"Janice." Roger breathes a sigh of relief. "I know Janice. She is okay? And Kirsten." He turns to John and smiles. "Janice is okay."

"I'm happy for you, Roger."

Roger turns back to the nurse, and at his burst of energy she too manages to smile through her exhaustion. "I'm glad to see a smile on your face." She says sincerely. With her clipboard between her hands she adds, "You are the first family member to come forward, nobody was carrying identification or something to link them to the systems. It is hard trying to find family, even the ones who have woken up won't give up people to contact."

Roger knows she is prodding at him for answers, but he knows that she knows the women hit were working prostitutes. They would be foolish to carry IDs. Often they have lost contact with family altogether.

"It's quite complicated." He decides on saying, and the nurse takes the answer in stride. She nods and looks over her shoulder at the other patients she has not looked after yet. 

"Nine people from the accident are here. When you are done I could bring you down to the morgue, to identify your friends."

He is grateful she did not reduce them to bodies. He knows that if he wants to make sure Imogen did not make it, he will have to look. He is certain some would have managed to take cover and hide from the scene. She does not have to be one of the six dead, he tells himself. He then nods at the nurse in agreement. "Okay, I can do that."

"Are you sure?"John asks.

Roger nods, he is. 

John gives in after that. They follow the line around the room to see who else is left critically injured from the accident. Some of the wounds are particularly brutal and the dressings are seeping with blood. The injuries are fresh and each of the people he does recognize, are in crippling pain despite various sedatives that are not up to bar with their usual drug dosages. 

He recognizes Fiona, who isn't one of Richards, but all the others are. Robyn, Elly, Ava, Emilia and Elsie. None of them look any good. The fitful sleep they got is plagued by pain and vivid memories. 

Only Ava recognizes him and reaches out to hold him, but she had not found her voice to talk to Roger. When she began grasping at her throat, the nurse had to rush over and calm her down.

For these people Roger realizes he can't do anything. 

When the nurse from before sees that John and Roger have gone by all the beds, she returns with one of the policeman by her arm. 

"Roger, it was Roger right?" She asks.

Roger stands a little closer to John. The tall policeman does not hide his suspicion when he eyes Roger from underneath his bushy eyebrows. 

"Yes, Roger." John elabortes. "Are we going down now?"

"I'm officer Leonard, I'm sorry to meet under these circumstances. It would be really helpful if you could identify some of the victims. Are you a family member?" The policeman speaks before the nurse can. He has a small booklet and a pencil. He has already written down Rogers name. 

"Something like that." Roger says nervously. "I'm not being questioned, am I?"

Maybe it was the wrong and suspicious thing to say, but Roger can't help it. The idea of being questioned now under these circumstances makes him break out in cold sweat. He is already being exposed to possibly identifying his dead friends. 

"You are not." The policeman assures. He glances at John, and when he does he quickly bounces back to Roger, who suspects now that John was glaring intensely. "I was just wondering, for the report."

"We knew each other well. Some of us." Roger murmurs. "I don't want to say anything that may ruin their reputation."

"Given their line of work?" 

Roger presses his lips together in a fine line. The policeman knows enough and stops prodding. He asks the nurse to lead the way to the morgue, where the bodies are kept and inspected. 

Roger and John follow behind them only a few paces away. They take the stairs down, through an area that is not commonly used for visitors. The policeman makes it unlikely for anyone to attack them, but Roger feels the situation dawning upon him. The atmosphere behind the public areas feels strangely more gloomy. And in the morgue area, Roger feels his chest tightening with panic. 

John notices before anyone else does. He grasps for Rogers hand and holds it tight. It is Rogers only lifeline. 

The nurse and policeman come to a stop by two large grey doors without any windows. The nurse especially is giving Roger a very calculated look before she speaks.

"This is the hospitals mortuary. I'm warning you, although we have already prepared the bodies and made our reports, it can still be shocking."

"Will it smell?"

"No, we have made sure the bodies are well preserved and kept cool. They are clean and checked by the mortuary supervisor. We have kept them stored in the fridges, with the case still open and no identification." She explains patiently. Roger looks around himself. The strange blue colored room and smooth grey floors. A smell hangs in the air, but it isn't clinical like the rest of the hospital. 

He fears what he will see in the next moment. He already feels like he'll spit his heart out when the nauseau wins over his self-control. 

John gives him a final squeeze when the nurse asks if they do have any other other questions before entering.

Roger shakes his head no. He won't be the first one to have to claim and identify the body of a loved one. They usually aren't brought down to these rooms, where the people work on the bodies and the bodies are still on the stale cold hospital stretcher, rather than a bed. Visitors get a special room, from what Roger remembers being told. Where they can say goodbye, collect the death certificate, wash the body per the family's religion.

With their background and current situation, neither Roger or the girls have such luxuries. 

"Alright, just wait on the side while the supervisor shows those involved in the incident. It would be a little cramped if we all went in."

"Okay." Roger murmurs. 

The nameless nurse offers a final smile, before she pushes the door open with her back. The policeman holds the other door other open, making a port for Roger to enter between the two of them. 

He tugs John along by the arm. He does not care that the supervisors eyes go straight to their intertwined hands, before they rake up to Rogers eyes.

Despite the surprise there, the man has a sympathetic gloom to his face. 

"Welcome, I always wish to meet people under different circumstances." The man says and stretches out his arm to the rows of what seem like oversized file cabinets lining the walls. Roger knows that those are the fridges, holding not papers, but humans. "Please stand to the side, I will pull the bodies of the accident. And we shall see if you can identify any of them."

Roger jumps when the two doors close and the policeman slips inside. He stays pressed against the door to give them space, but Roger can't appreciate him being there.

His face is numb and he strangely can't feel anything from the waist down. He is aware that he is sweating profoundly, but in the strange blue room surrounded by creme colored fridges, his blood has run cold. 

The supervisor opens a fridge on the wall left of them after reading some papers on a clipboard and unlocking the fridge. 

Several people are kept under different shelfs, Roger notes. 

John squeezes his hand and Roger spares him a look, and sees John is also green around the edges when the doctor pulls out the first body from the storage space. He gestures with his gloved hand for John and Roger to step closer.

"She originally had black hair." The supervisor says curtly at Rogers sharp inhale when he sees the girl with the shaved head and sickly pale face. "We had to shave it, to check the wound and remove the bullet." 

Roger thinks he might be nodding his head, but he could also be standing completely still. He is not sure.

The bullet has just graced the top of her skull, where there is not a dark thick stitch keeping her head from splitting open. The room is spinning and he struggles. Not just with swallowing down his bile, but keeping himself from buckling through his knees. 

The supervisor stands over her other side, whilst keeping a respectful distance. 

He asks, "Do you recognize her?"

"Holly." Roger rasps. He breathes heavily and nods. After living with her for so many years he would recognize her even while naked, pale, shaved and dead. The scars on her body are hers and the small birthmark under her eye is unmistakable. 

Behind him the policeman is scribbling frantically. 

"Holly? Holly who?"

"I don't know." Roger whispers, without taking his eyes off of her.

The policeman pauses his writing and Roger hates how he feels him stepping closer. "What did you say?"

"He said he doesn't know." John repeats. He wraps an arm around Rogers middle when he begins to sway. "They were friends, but within her profession she kept things to herself. She wouldn't give up her identity to anyone."

"Isn't there something you do know?" The policeman pushes with a frustrated urgency. "Something that could give us a lead on finding families? It can't be right that they don't know what happened to her."

"I wish I knew, but I don't." Roger whsipers. He is still looking at her face. He remembers he used to think she was beautiful and always kind, willing to share food with his mother or himself. Always offering her last cigarette to him even if she hadn't have any left. She talked with an accent too, warm and-- "Welsh." Roger looks up at the policeman. "She was Welsh, her accent was very Welsh."

The scribbling continues and Roger looks at the supervisor. "Does that help?"

"Anything helps." He responds. 

After that the ball gets rolling. Roger forces a brave face between the three other men in the room, but with each of the victims, there is only one so far he hadn't recognized. Roger has seen five of them now, four of which were his flatmates while living with Richard. With each dead face he meets, Rogers heart sinks a further into his shoes. 

The supervisor pulls the last body and deep inside of himself, Roger knows he is not surprised to be face to face with Imogens pale, motionless form. 

After identifying four of his other friends, Roger suddenly finds a rush of air in his lungs and the dawning sensation of immedate acception. 

His legs are like spagetthi noodles and he leans onto the table holding his friends to stay upright. He knows better than to touch her, but his hands hover over her now pale cheeks and beautiful threads of long blonde hair. His eyes fill with tears at the horrendous wound where the bullet had penetrated through her left eye. 

"She must have died immediately." Roger says to nobody in particular. John steps up next to him and puts a hand on Rogers shoulder. The touch is comforting and he leans into it, but Roger can't look away from her tender face. "She wouldn't have suffered."

She looks strangely at peace. If Roger squints and angles his head, he thinks there is a ghost of a smile on her face. 

"She is in a better place." John mutters. "She must be happy you are here to say goodbye."

John has never met Imogen, but Roger thinks he is right. She always looked at everything in a positive light. 

He wipes away a tear that's escaped from his eye. He gives in and lays a hesitant hand on Imogens shoulder, the way she would have comforted him were she in his place. 

"She deserved better, you know." Roger sniffles. "She was always there for me. I don't want to see her like this. This isn't fair."

"I know, I know."

Roger is pulled away from her forcibly by John. He struggles at first, wanting to hold her, but he thinks this is likely for the best. John keeps him tight against his chest and stumbles backwards so that they are out of the way for the supervisor. Roger is not crying, but he holds onto John for dear life, clawing at his vest and blinking rapidly to keep his vision from blurring. John shushes him, in a non patronizing manner. Roger was skeptical of John coming along rather than Freddie or Brian, but suddenly he understands why John insisted and Freddie suggested this. John is a pillar, when Roger is a wreck. He doesn't know how the others would have reacted to the sight of dead bodies, but John has held his own better than most would. 

He doesn't know how long he is held, with his face hidden comfortably in the crook of Johns neck. Roger pulls away when he hears the final click and closure of the fridge, knowing that when he turns around, Imogens mutilated face is no longer on display.

"Is there anything you can tell us about the last victim?" The forgotten policeman asks from the corner of the room.

Roger cups his face, blotched and warm with his cool hands before he faces the other man. 

"Her name is Imogen, but I don't have a last name."

"Right." The man scribbles fast. "Anything else? Anything for leads?"

"She was in debt. A lot of debt before she... Left that life behind. Credit cards and bankruptcy."

"Do you know when she left that life behind? She must have disappeared off the radar at a certain point. That could help with our search for family."

She was there before Roger was, but he knows not how long before. "At least five years. Likely a lot more."

More writing and scribbling on the notebook. Roger feels drained and this time he leans onto John because otherwise he might collapse. He should not have identified bodies on an empty stomach.

The policeman flips his booklet shut, he nods at Roger, a grateful expression across his face. "I am sorry for your loss, your assistance will help us a long way with the case and finding the families of the victims. If there is anything else--"

"I would like to see my friends now. The ones alive." Roger interrupts bluntly. He looks at the supervisor, who is hovering in the back, and then at John. "I need to see them."

"We can go. We'll go now, don't worry."

John puts a hand on Rogers back and leads him straight towards the door. The policeman has the decency to scramble for the handle to hold it open for Roger.

The nurse is right where they left her and at their approach she tries for a friendly smile. 

"You said Janice was transferred out of the ICU. Roger wants to see her."

Roger is relieved to rest his voice after talking about his dead friends identify in the suffocating little blue room. The nurses eyes travel between the two men, and she sighs. 

"It is not exactly visitor hours, but..." The agent joins them too, his notebook is neatly tucked away in his breatpocket. Roger doesn't want to see any more of him today, which must have shown on his face, because the nameless nurse exhales pitifully. "I will make an exception for you, you'll be able to see her alone if she doesn't mind. There is a policeman at her door, but you will get some privacy. I know this hasn't been easy."

She finishes with a smile and despite whatever duties she is neglecting to lead John and Roge to Janice, after glancing at her clipboard to look which room was assigned to Janice, she leads them out of the morgue area and back to the main hospital.

He no longer thinks Richard or his men are lurking around the corner trying to find him. In fact, he thinks they have done the exact opposite and cut the victims of the shooting completely off. 

"Are you okay?" John asks while they climb the stairs to another level.

Roger can barely hold himself together. Too many emotions are near boiling over all at once. He is as angry as he is sad as he is confused as he is betrayed on their account. Each prostitute risked their lives working the streets every day in fear of being violated, raped, robbed, arrested or worse, murdered. All Roger knows is that none of the men are here, none of them have come forward to identify any of the dead or be at their sides now that they are suffering directly from the gang violence. He knows that one way or another, Richard and his partners have let them down. 

"No I'm not." Roger replies finally after thinking about the emotions he is feeling and not being able to point one down. He blinks and instead of darknes he sees the hole in Imogens head. "I can't wrap my head around it."

"Maybe Janice can tell you more."

"I hope so."

The nurse brings them as far as the door, where as promised another agent is guarding the door. Roger is starting to suspect they know they are up against a high profile case and protecting potential witnesses won't be easy.

But Roger doubts Janice would ever take the stand against the crew. 

Roger and John waits while the nurse explains the situation to the guarding policeman, the other joins in and puts in a word for Roger, it appears. The first man raises his eyebrows, before he sighs and steps aside to allow Roger to enter. "One at the time, and if there are any suspicious noises, I'm coming in."

Before John can protest, Roger settles with a hurried yes. 

He turns to his boyfriend and offers a half smile. "This will be the least traumatic thing I'll see all day."

Johns shoulders sag and he nods, he points with his thumb at the chairs just a few meters away lining against the wall. "Want me to wait right there?"

"Yes. I don't think she'll be up for much, she's not much of a talker."

Without any of the previous frustration, annoyance and worry from before, John squeezes Rogers arm in solidarity. "Just take your time." 

The door is already being opened. Roger neglects saying goodbye to the nurse or the officer who had been bothering him about his friends idenitites. He walks past all three of them to walk into the room, close the door behind him and fall into the arms of the woman on the bed. 

"Roger?" She opens her arms for him just in time to catch him. "Oh you idiot, I can't believe you're here."

The delighted surprise in her voice is overshadowed by a broken sob. Roger is half on top of her, he realizes, and eases his weight off in case she is wounded, but does not refrain from hanging onto her shoulders like his life depends on it. Her curls tickle his face and her strong hands rub away the tension between his shoulder blades. She always had that special energy about her, that reminded him of his mother in times of comfort. 

Though she might be the one to get shot, her solace gives him enough to stay afloat in her arms. 

"Were you hit?" He asks into her shoulder. He realizes he is crying and the tears seep right into the thin hospital gown hugging her already frail frame. "Did they shoot you?"

"No, no I wasn't shot." She breathes wetly, she cups the back of his head and Roger tugs in his legs to curl himself against her side. "I was trampled in the chaos, my foot is a bristled mess. My goddamn toes are broken, so be careful with that, the drugs are nowhere near the right dosage for me. I am okay, though, I am okay."

Roger rests his cheek on her shoulder and closes his eyes against her neck. He breathes in deeply for the first time since seeing the news on the television. He can breathe again. 

"I went to see Imogen." He whispers. "She got hit."

Janice sighs, her chin is gently propped onto his head. She starts to rock him from side to side, like a child, the nature of the slow swinging calms his alarming heart rate. "I know. I saw it happen, there was nothing to be done."

"I never got to say goodbye." 

"Oh she loved you," Janice promises. "And she knows you loved her. So much. She would always talk about you even after you left." Her long thin fingers stroke his hair back into something presentable. "She always felt guilty for not doing enough for you, but I think she did perfect."

Roger remembers her, her perfect kindness and her deep green eyes. "She was."

"She was so worried about you, that they would find you. They asked us to search for you— and your friend."

"Freddie?" Roger asks.

"No, one named Crystal. A man, balding too early for his age. That is how Richard had described him. He thought you were up North in Leeds. Put Richard on the wrong foot and then disappeared." She lets out an airy chuckle. "You always make the best friends, don't you?" 

"I try." 

It is as he feared. Crystal is on Richards wanted list. This puts all of them at serious risk. Roger wonders if Dominique is safe and if there are no connections from the hospital to Crystals transfer in Scotland. Then there is still Kevin, who needs to be paid later today to keep him from saying anything to Richard. His world is falling apart from all fronts. 

He curls himself impossibly closer to Janice. He takes in her body heat and the calm rise and fall of her strong chest. 

"Will you tell me what happened?" He asks eventually. 

She stills, all her movement grinds to a seconds halt, 

"I think it was a rival gang. It was planned, you could tell. Two cars drove by, really slow and rolled down their windows to aim their guns at us. At point blank range. By the time we knew what was going on, it was too late. Some tried to run, get down for shelter, but others became immediate targets. Filip was on duty that night... He grabbed the two others managing and drove in the opposite direction of the attackers. I and everyone else was on the floor, trampled onto, gunned down or already dead. We were creaming for help, people were in agonizing pain, but they left us there to bleed out, until locals calling ambulances to pick us up from the road."

"We risk our lives night and day for those basatards and they left you to die." Roger sits upright and looks her dead in the eye. "After everything." 

"To them our lives are interchangeable by the next unlucky man or woman who spiraled down." A sick smile plays on her lips, it is humorless and full of pain. "They do not care. We are disposable."

She cups Rogers cheeks and wipes away his tears with her thumbs. 

"We must look after ourselves and our own, as we always have. Yes? That is why you came here, to and that is why we must protect each other from more harm. These men cannot be trusted. They use our bodies, they make profit off our backs and leave us to bleed out on the sidewalk when their game of risk comes to a conclusion. They will suffer for their deeds, one day, but until then we must look after our own."

"Will you return to him?" Roger asks. "After this?"

Janice shakes her head. "I am under arrest, when I leave the hospital. As are the other girls."

Rogers eyes widen and his mouth slackens. 

"We were involved in illegal activities. The law says so. Don't worry, it won't be that bad."

"Surely, they can't--"

"They will, and they will use it to get information out of us, about Richard and the gang. This has become a media circus is what I read in the paper, they need to make a case or people will realize organized crime is left to slip through the cracks." Janice huffs, her voice has become raspy from speaking. Roger has never heard her speak so much in his life. "I will be arrested, that's why the boys drove off, they wouldn't want to be involved with the authorities so they cut us off. I don't know what will happen next. We will see."

"Will you work with them?"

"If they offer me an interesting deal, perhaps." She says with a glimmer in her eye that comes and goes as fast as it had appeared. "There is so much anger in me, Roger. I cannot answer you honestly how I will feel or if I will cooperate tomorrow. Richard does not care for my survival, that much is certain. The cops are incompetent pigs. Who am I to trust?"

"This gang killed Imogen." Roger gasps. He clenches at his hurting heart. It hurts with hollowness. "She is dead and they left her there, they just left her there and Anna and Holly. They killed them. They did not help and it nearly killed you and it killed them—"

Rogers words string together in a sob by the end. 

He falls back into her open arms so she can soothe him through the rush. He is earnestly sobbing now. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. He never stops. He lets everyone die around him, he is hunting for me and killing my friends. Imogen is dead. Holly is dead. Anna is dead and I will be next."

"Shh. Come on. Come here." She shushes him kindly. "It will be okay."

"No, no no. It will go on forever. He will keep killing people. I don't know how to stop him. I don't know what to do."

"You are so young, Roger. You cannot fix everything yourself. Not even Richard. He will do evil, because he is evil. That is not something you can stop. That is his nature."

He stays there in her arms until he is no longer crying. She doesn't loosen her touch even when he knows it must pain her to keep holding him in that position. Roger thinks about Kevin, about Richard, Imogen and himself, where he fits in the story. He thinks about how the run in with Kevin will be the first of many incidents. Imogens death the thousands between another thousands of unaccounted losses. And how he will never be freed from this cycle of violence, not for as long as it exists. 

★☆★

He leaves the bleak hospital room only after Janice falls into a fitful slumber and her arms loosen from around Roger.

At the door he is again met face to face with the same guarding officer.

Roger slips through the crack and past the man in a hurry to get away from this insidious place, only to be grasped by the arm and pulled back to the policeman's side.

He freezes on the spot, the look of distrust in the mans beady eyes and the grip on his arm sets off alarm bells in his head.

"If you know anything that could be useful to our investigation, you are legally obligated to inform us." 

"I don't know anything." Roger struggles against the trap. Panic rises in his chest, knowing he could be arrested just like Janice and the rest of them. "Let me go."

The hostility grows and the mans grip does too. 

"If I find out you know something and you lied to me—" The police gets up close in to Roger face. He can smell the stale cigarettes on the mans cracked lips. "I can tell you one thing, you won't last long in prison." 

"What the hell is going on here?"

Rogers arm is ripped free by John and he is pushed behind his back. "What do you think you're doing?" He snarls at the police officer. The man is surprised by Johns sudden appearance. He must have thought Roger was left alone with the nurse and first officer gone. "Are you questioning my friend here while visiting patients at the hospital?" 

"A mere routine question, sir. Nothing to write home about." 

Johns eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to spit fire, but Roger can see this go south and have them both land in jail before the end of the morning. He tugs on Johns arm and leads them away from the awful man.

Taken aback, but compliant, John follows Roger down the hallway and out of the police officers eyefield.

"Are you okay?" John asks as they speed walk, he still looks around himself suspiciously, he doesn't know Richard and his minions will be miles away from the hospital or Menom Road for the foreseeable future. "What happened there?" 

"They killed her."

"Who? Who killed who?"

"Richard and his idiots. They didn't do anything when my friends were shot, they let Imogen bleed out on the street while they ran like cowards. All the survivors will be arrested." 

John stumbles over his own feet in surprise. He stops altogether even when Roger wants nothing more but to keep walking to get rid of the pend up energy. 

"I'm sorry, Roger." 

"This needs to stop. This has to stop." Roger inhales sharply through his nose when his lungs burn from extrusion. "It won't stop with Kevin. The police are after me. Richard is after me. They are after Crystal. My friends are going to jail, while they are not. My friends who were victims of a revenge meant to harm Richard, it barely touches him. Only financially. This needs to stop. I can't live if it doesn't stop." 

Roger roughly wipes at the tears that have jumped in his eyes. 

John frowns and grabs Rogers arms to stop him from rubbing his face raw. Where Roger breathes heavily, John has an eery era of calm. 

They stand in the middle of a near empty hallway, Roger eyes trail down to Johns lips before they bounce back to his eyes. Which are to his surprise, glistening with unshed tears. 

"I know." John whispers. "This isn't right. We're going to stop this. I promise."

★☆★ __

_"You know, you're a right creep."_

_Freddie closes his lips over his teeth, to mask his grin. John caught him propped up on his elbow, looking down at Roger who is fast asleep between them. Freddie's hand is stroking calming circles across the smooth tilt of his shoulder down his arm._

_It is some time between 2 am and 6 when Johns alarm goes off for work, but his eyes have adjusted to the lack of light fast and suddenly he is wide awake, looking at Freddie who is also wide awake watching over Roger._

_"Another nightmare?" John asks._

_Freddie matches his tone with Johns and speaks quietly to not disturb their other two boyfriends. "He was thrashing around and mumbling nonsense. He seems to be better now."_

_"Because of you I'm sure." John leans across Rogers body to reach for Freddie's lips. Despite himself, Freddie smiles in the closed lipped kiss and sighs in their brief closeness._

_"I feel horrible knowing he went through this alone for so many nights."_

_"Don't worry about stuff you can't help now." John pulls back before he smothers Roger to death. He sits back against the headboard so he can reach around himself and touch around for Brian in the dark. Brian snorts in his sleep when John lays his cool hand on his warm cheek, he worries he might have woken him up, but it turns out he falls back into his deep slumber state._

_"They both sleep so fitfully." Freddie rumbles._

_John turns his head to see he has slid down under the sheets again to press himself against Roger. Roger has rolled onto his stomach, giving Freddie the space to splay across his back and pull him flush against him._

_It is quite an adorable sight, Freddie nuzzling Rogers neck and Rogers sleep slack face half mashed into the pillow._

_"I wonder why he sleeps fitfully, being jolted around like that."_

_"I don't know what you're talking about." Smiles Freddie, pulling Roger impossibly closer by sliding his leg between Rogers._

_Roger, as if on cue, flexes his fingers on the bedding, inviting Freddie's hand to grasp his, when his fingers wrap around Freddie's he settles again._

_The smug tenderness in Freddie's eyes cannot be matched with anything else than the brightness of a dying star. John wishes he could capture this moment forever, with Roger now in their beds and him on house arrest after the call from his friend, these moments of peace are important for him to cherish._

_He too follows Freddie back under the sheets but scoots close to Brian until their sides are pressed together._

_He reaches out for Brians arm and wraps it around himself to force him into spooning John from behind, so John can wath Freddie and Roger together._

_Freddie catches on with his plan and peaks open one eye. "Who is the creep now?"_

_"Oh shut up you." John whispers, failing to bite back his smile._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright alright alright. So. 👀 this is where we at now. Roger is driven to the edge of madness. This needs to stop. One way or another.


	33. Of Candor and Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bull Crew needs to be dealt with

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg so. A 6.800 chapter! This chaprer is a little different so I beg for your patience with this one and to keep ur eyes open while u read haahha

Between fetching his bosses' lunches, brewing tea every couple of hours and being in charge of putting the case files in alphabetical order without being allowed to open them, Oliver feels more like an unpaid assistant than a policeman in training. 

He did not join the police academy to sit around at the station eight hours of the day, picking his nose, looking at his boss, Larry Jones, reading a comic book tucked neatly between the file he is supposed to be studying, but that is exactly how Oliver spends his time as a probationary constable. 

Excitement or work experience are hard to come by at this station. (And they all said he was lucky to be stationed in central London.)

Nothing ever happens here.

That is, until something does.

★☆★

Everyone was shaken up by the Menom Road shooting, just a few blocks away from the police station. But with very little information to go off on, it stayed a conversation topic rather than an investigation topic, because they could not put a case together without any information aside from a handful of prostitutes in custody. 

That was of course, until their receptionist Lora came rushing into Larry Jones' office one afternoon, red-faced and out of breath from bustling down the hallway. 

"Mr Jones, Officer Leonard downstairs for you."

Larry Jones' face twists in poorly masked annoyance. Oliver sees the vivid colors of the comic book peak out from behind the beige file cover when he puts it down. "What is this about?"

"He has a witness." She sounds bewildered by her own words. "The person who identified bodies at the hospital? They have come to make a statement." 

In his seven months at the station, Oliver has never seen larry Jones surprised, or in any abundance of emotion. "Here?" He asks. Now?" 

At their receptionists' frantic nodding, Larry Jones catapults himself from his desk in a rush to follow after her. Oliver still sits with his legs crossed on his mini-add-on desk opposite to Larry Jones' (which is about double the size). He is unsure if he should follow or not, but he buzzes with energy when Larry Jones' shout sounds across the whole station. 

"Oliver!"

"Yes, sir?!" He calls back with a glimmer of hope. 

"Grab my notepad, a pencil and make us all some coffee and come downstairs. Don't forget the biscuits!"

Oliver jumps to his feet to comply. He scurries around the office to gather the materials and waits for the coffee to brew in the corner. After seven months of doing close to nothing, he doesn't want to miss a thing on the biggest news item of the year, being solved right at the station he is at. 

This would be his first, real, not role-play, witness statement. On a case that has taken over the entire British media. 

He struggles to balance the four hot coffee mugs and notepad down to the interrogation room, where he finds the two policemen waiting outside, Larry Jones appears nearly as excited as Oliver himself. Officer Leonard, thirty-six months away from retirement, just looks tired, stroking his grey hair back under his uniform helmet. 

He meets eyes with Oliver, and the last piece of patience is sighed out of him. 

"You're in luck today, greenie." He comments wryly. "I only did domestic violence and minor burglaries in my first days."

"Yes, lucky me." Oliver grins and offers Officer Leonard to take the steaming mug at the expense of burning the palm of his own hand. He does the same for Larry Jones, who hums in gratitude while sipping from the brim. Oliver refrains from starting with his own. He is still holding too many things to do drink safely without the high probability of spilling.

Officer Leonard does not seem to like him. He gives him another hard disapproving look over the brim of his mug. "If you wanna come inside kid, you gotta stop smiling like that."

"Right!" Oliver smoothens his face out. "Sorry." 

"Excellent, well this is a rare case, and this is a very fragile young woman. I met her in the hospital just after all of this went down." He is speaking to Larry Jones, not Oliver, but that doesn't mean he isn't listening intently. "She recognized nearly all the victims, dead or alive. Very secretive young woman, around the same age if younger than most victims. Therefore I think there is a large probability of her being a prostitute too."

Oliver coughs on his own spit. Larry Jones closes his eyes in embarrassment for him. 

"If you can't handle--"

"I can!" He trips or his own tongue trying to convey how badly he will do anything they want for him to witness this. "I can, I can. Sorry. I can."

"Great." Officer Leonard nods gravely. He reminds Oliver of his father when he said he'd be training to be policeman instead of working at his carpeting business. "If everyone has taken the opportunity to let out their energy and initial reactions, are we ready to go inside?"

"Certainly."

They all step back from the door, allowing Larry Jones to open it for Officer Leonard. He follows after him, leaving Oliver to hold the door for himself with his foot while holding the roll of biscuits, notepad, two cups of coffee and pencil in his hands. 

He had seen the inside of the interrogation room before, but it has a different atmosphere with an actual person sitting at the end of the table. 

It is a woman with soft yet delicate features. She straightens her back when she sees them approach. Her hair is somewhat shaggy, but that is to be expected from the type of women she is. While she is wearing a boyish knit sweater, covering the broad range of her shoulders down until it disappears past the table's edge, Oliver admits he finds her and her ocean competing eyes attractive. Despite the dark circles of evident exhaustion that pool underneath. 

The two officers introduce themselves kindly when they sit down in front of her. Oliver realizes then that there is no chair for him. 

He hurries to put the woman's drink in front of her and the notepad, biscuits and pencil are given to his boss. 

"Excellent, Oliver. Fetch yourself a chair and join us."

Relieved he isn't expected to stand throughout the ordeal, Oliver rushes back down the hall to take the wooden chair from Larry Jones' office back to the interrogation room. He has never ran this hard in his life, but he'll be damned if he misses a second of this.

On his way back he closes the door and sits a respectable distance from the interrogation table. He is an observer in the case, not a participant. 

He is pleased to see the woman has reached out for the mug and cradles it between her shaking hands. 

Larry Jones has already begun writing at the top of his notepad, it can't have been much, because Officer Leonard is only just finished droning out the woman rights under the English law. Oliver knew the exact lines too because he had to for an exam, but he doesn't exactly remember them now. He knows she has the right to leave, which she might, given how nervous she seems under the fluorescent lights coming from the ceiling beams. 

The two officers are eager to start with the questions. For days they have made little to no progress with the Menom Road case. Most of the prostitutes are still in the hospital in no condition to be questioned, and the ones arrested have not said much yet. Having a witness here, an insider, volunteering information might be exactly what they need.

But before Officer Leonard can start asking the first question, he is interrupted by the young women, who, despite her obvious nerves, puts her two palms flat on the table and squares her shoulders. 

"I am willing to give up information about the shooting. I was part of that world for a long time," She says in a raspy voice straining to maintain steadiness. "But, I cannot tell you anything unless I am granted immunity for my part of the crimes. And I and my flatmates will require witness protection."

She leans back into her chair, her eyes remain unblinking while Larry Jones is rapidly fanning his eyes trying to keep up with the turn of event. 

"That is a very large request you are making," He begins with a lecturing edge to his tone, but is stopped by Officer Leonard holding up his hand halfway between them.

"We understand you must be in a very difficult position." He sympathizes. "Whatever you may know, will get you into trouble with both the law, and the people we want to catch. Correct?"

She looks straight at him now, but it is obvious she seems to trust more than Larry Jones. A judgement Oliver can't help but agree to. 

"Correct."

"Are you certain you know enough to put us forward in this case? I can try and make you an immunity deal in exchange for a testimony, but that won't happen if you have nothing to give me." He tells her honestly, a tone that works a lot better than Larry Jones' approach. "If you have information that could lead us to other witnesses, or to evidence about the Menom Road shooting, I can get you transactional immunity, that is complete blanket immunity. That is what you want right?"

"I have more than that. This goes beyond the Menom Road shooting, a small incident in a timeline of organized crime." She leans closer to them, craning her neck. "You see, I may know enough for you to take down a whole organization, which would be in my best interest because they are after me. It would be in my friends best interests, because they are being killed on the street and they are the ones being arrested and treated like criminals, while the people behind the mass web of organized crime get away with it. Every. Damn. Time."

They look away from the woman's fierce gaze.

Larry Jones meets Leonard's eye. They have a short conversation in a series of glances, before they both push their chairs back and simultaneously get up to their feet.

Larry Jones dusts off his uniform, but there is a glimmer of possibility in his eyes that Oliver does not miss. "We have to talk to our supervisor to accept this sort of request. Would you be willing to wait here while we make a quick call? It won't be long."

The woman gives a one-shouldered shrug. 

In that exact moment, Larry Jones and Officer Leonard rush out of the interrogation room. Oliver jumps to his feet to run after them, while spluttering apologies to the young women with her arms patiently folded over the table. 

He follows the two men into the hallway to Larry Jones' office. They are talking in hushed whispers that Oliver can't quite make out, but he knows they have a goldmine of information sitting down the hall right now, and these two men must be deadly aware. 

"Organized crime case. Goddamn, at my age." 

"We have long lost grip on some parts of the streets. Including Menom Road. If we just know what people to arrest to take over public order again--"

"I know. I know. We need to make a call now. Goddamn. Get me Ronald's number, we need to dial him directly. Permission for this needs to be granted from the highest order. This is rare."

Larry Jones starts flipping through the pages of his phone book, while Officer Leonard takes the phone off the hook. Oliver hoovers in the doorway. Unsure what to do with himself but to watch this epic scene right out of a Hollywood flick. 

Once the number is found, Larry Jones rants it off to Officer Leonard. They wait for the lines to connect when suddenly Leonars eyes bulge out of his head and curses, before turns to Oliver.

"We don't know her name. Go ask for her name now, hurry up. We all look unprofessional here."

Oliver runs as fast as his feet can carry him. He storms down the hall into the interrogation room, making the poor witness jump in surprise.

"Sorry!" He heaves, clutching his chest where his lungs are burning. Too much cardio for one day. "I am terribly sorry ma'am, sorry, but we forgot to ask for your name."

The woman's cheeks blossom crimson with embarrassment. 

She clears her throat and, shakes her hair out of her eyes. "My name is Roger Taylor, and I am not a ma'am."

Oliver gapes at _him_ stupidly like a goldfish with its complimentary famous dumbness to match.

"I--" He forgets to breathe, and _Roger_ in exasperation, waves him off to the direction of the door. 

"Go tell them." Roger orders, short on patience. 

Oliver dumbly bows his head, twice, before retreating back mumbling a string of apologies to Roger at the table alone until the door closes behind him.

He runs at record speed back to his boss and Officer Leonard back in the office. His thighs burn and he has to hold onto the doorframe to keep from sliding down to the floor. He already misses the days of tea brewing and comics.

They wait expectedly for him to catch enough air to wheeze, "He's a man. Roger-- He is a man." 

★☆★

Despite being male and a previous prostitute, Rogers case is taken on by Larry Jones and Officer Leonard, who arrange for him both witness protection and blanket immunity for all crimes during the time Roger was part of the organization. 

Rogers crimes in itself are no longer a mystery; drug abuse, homosexuality, prostitution and being a complicit witness to many criminal activities. 

Oliver tries not to Rogers past cloud his judgement. He knows Roger has risked a lot to report the to the police. 

With Roger on board and his witness protection sorted, they transform the station within the week.

The station is turned into something out of a detective movie. 

Where there was quiet, comic books and five breaks between the slow reading of past files, there is now scattered papers out on the table, a large board with pins and pictures with descriptions written in hard red pen, policemen walk up and down the hallway with clues, information and old files that connects and confirms to the information Roger is giving. 

Within a week they have mapped out the hierarchy of the so-called Bull Crew. A gang that operates in most of London's criminal underground. 

Roger reveals the different branches and different businesses. Most of the men involved have a criminal record already, most of whom have disappeared off the radar for many long years. Oliver is not the only one flabbergasted from hearing all the details around the business of crime. He read detective novels, sure. Watched Bond movies, certainly. Imagined what it would be like, yes. But everyone is perplexed by the enormous bureaucratic organized side of the criminal activities. 

Oliver reminds himself sometimes that Roger was just a prostitute and just one small link in the whole scheme of things. This notion was once doubted by Larry Jones, who openly questioned whether Roger was not a bigger player in the organization. 

He was put back in place by a very distraught, but cold Roger. Who rolled up his sleeve to show a tattoo, covering an obvious scar. The scar was a brandmark that also matches the brand marks of the prostitutes they arrested from the hospital. A brandmark that is given only to identify prostitutes. Larry Jones shut up after that, and not to mention how they all looked away in horror when pictures of Roger came in that showed scars across his back and most of his body (to be used in court for evidence). That was to build a sketch of the abuse victims of the Bull Crew have gone through. 

The case has many different dimensions and will likely be broken up into several cases to bring focus to all the issues that have arisen. 

Officer Leonard wanted to break it down per branch in the Bull Crew. Larry Jones did not want to take on each leader individually before trickling down to the rest, but grab the whole organization at once.

These two notions have caused many fallouts within the investigation team. Fifteen different officers have taken up parts of the case to investigate, most working with at least two or more partners. They range between investigating in past incidents and what people they can personally hold accountable for, where specialist firearms command are planning raids on operation locations of the Crew, assessing witnesses, assessing victims, assessing evidence--

Oliver has a different job from everyone else. Being the greenie, he is in charge of taking care of Roger. 

Despite being the butt of many jokes, he doesn't actually mind. He learns a lot from just being in the room, serving to Roger his tea or making sure he is getting his weekly witness protection allowance while he and his flatmates are in hiding. He gets to hear in on conversations between detectives and Roger, or read files and see mug shots over their shoulders. 

He knows he is learning more than most of his fellow policemen in training, despite Rogers case being considered an oddity because he is male and working on taking down a criminal organization. 

Roger looks nothing like the person that was mistaken for a woman five weeks ago. He has dyed his hair a light brown shade and goes around wearing thick black-rimmed glasses, turning him from some colorblind rockstar to a bland dressed stranger that looks like the 'before' imagine in a teenage makeover movie. 

He needs to blend in crowds under witness protection, not that he is supposed to do crowds at all. They go to the pub next door of the station, he drives back and forth from his safe house with a government-issued vehicle that changes every week. His shopping and groceries get done by people working for witness protection, whatever it takes to avoid the public. Oliver finds it hard to imagine a life like that, the more time he spends with Roger, the more he realizes how brave he is. 

He tells him exactly that, over lunch one day between investigation sessions. 

"Isn't this very frightening for you?" Oliver asks dumbly through the half-chewed bits of the sandwich he's consuming. 

Roger, to his credit does not grimace at the sight, but then again, Roger has seen much worse. 

"It is the scariest thing I have ever done." Roger states simply. "But you can imagine it'd be scarier if I had to return back to that life."

_Prostitution. Rape. Violence._

Oliver swallows thickly. The sandwich is dry in his throat now. 

Roger drops his eyes back to the beans he is tossing around on his plate. Something about him today is sad and melancholic. None of these days and discussions can be easy for Roger. The memories of being violated and a witness to horrendous crimes are constantly refreshed and asked about and questioned during the investigation. They are only weeks in, but Roger is growing weary around the edges.

Oliver leans over, in case the old couple at the table behind them are eavesdropping on their conversation. 

"Your life will change for the better now."

At the attempted reassurance, Roger gives a small, pitiful smile, the pity directed at Oliver. "Living under witness protection is not exactly great." He stabs at his sausages with no intention of picking them up, leaving countless tiny holes across the slightly burned skin. "My flatmates had to give up their jobs and their families are under surveillance for their safety. They can't even talk to anyone over the phone, nobody can know where we are. They can't even do anything quite as simple as getting their oen groceries. I have never felt quite so guilty, really."

"Doing the right thing is not easy, but will be worth it."

Roger chuckles heartedly, a lithe sudden ringing that lights up the golden specks in his eyes. "You're quite a simple man." 

"Well, Mr Taylor I will take that as a compliment." Oliver smiles back, digging back into his sandwich at the same time as Roger takes his first actual bite. 

"You should."

★☆★

The Specialist Firearms Command are a scary bunch, in Oliver's humble opinion. Their black armoured attire suggests they are ready for everything and willing to confront anything, if their shields and enormous fire weapons are anything to go off. 

They also don't talk much, aside from occasional grunted commands. 

Those are usually not for Oliver, but for Roger. He sits squeezed between two squad members in the back, while Roger sits in the front with another. 

Today is a big, but nerve-wracking day. 

After four months of investigation and puzzling, anxiety and spying, conducting evidence to warrant arrest. 

Today is finally the day. 

At four a.m. sharp different squad teams will raid the Bull Crews six main locations at the same hour. They estimated that the leaders and those next-in-line of command should be present at these locations. Today's goal is to arrest the head figures of the Crew and to gather further evidence of the crimes and bring all organized criminal activities to a crashing hold. 

For five of the six locations, Roger was able to provide an address or point on a map. These are scattered around London or one outside the city, at the docks where they get illegal shipments. 

But the most important venue is the living and business quarters of Gillian Harley, a known criminal to the system and apparently now, head of the Bull Crew. His hideout is not clear on any map, therefor Roger is forced to drive along in the first car of the eight-car party, giving directions to the driver. It is dark out and Oliver can barely see through the tinted windows. He knows they pass a school, a suburban neighbourhood and a large park that announces their departure from the normal world. Oliver's nerves play up too, now that they have left the inner city, where more emergency services are easily available. 

He reminds himself that he can't complain, not after begging Larry Jones if he could come, if only to support Roger. 

That had been considered a lousy excuse, until Roger revealed he knew the location because of being violated at said location several times over the five years he worked for the Crew and Larry Jones was forced to agree on Oliver supporting Roger. 

The uneven roads and industrial bridges must bring back uneasy memories. Despite being so terrified he could puke up his intensis, Oliver is glad Roger isn't alone with these three beast-like men, carrying guns heavier than themselves. 

Roger warns them when they enter the industrial area. 

"We are coming into eye-sight." Roger has barely spoken the words when the car comes to a silent stop. The seven cars behind them come to a halt too, in one neat line. Roger swallows thickly when he is asked what building it is. "The red-bricked warehouse there." He points at it, his hand is shaking hard. 

The teams have all been briefed on the layout of the location for as far as Roger could help them with that. They know that upstairs serves as the living quarters for the boss and that the basement is kept hidden, for business.

Behind the back of the building, there is a garage, but there should only be one fire escape that follows the back door at the garage. Some squad members will guard both exits, and others will go inside and get everyone inside under arrest, to be brought into custody. 

The specialist team had come up with a detailed plan, which was not shared with others on the case. Despite dying of curiosity, Oliver was glad about the discretion. 

"Alright, beyond this point, neither of you gets out of the car unless given permission. Greenie, get in the front seat, in case of an emergency, drive off. Go back to the inner city. There are enough cars that can carry us." The man in the dark uniform puts the black mask over his face and opens the car door, together with his colleagues. Before he gets out and closes the door, he leans in and says, "Keep the engine on. Stay inside. Don't get caught in the crossfire. You don't want to risk it."

"Alright, noted and saved. Good luck!" Oliver calls after them, but the door is slammed shut before he can finish his sentence. 

He hastens out of his seatbelt and out the car to sit in the front with Roger. He watches the squad get information and jog their way over at the large brick warehouse, decaying in the far back. All the lights appear to be off, but that would make sense for the late hour. 

"I am shaking in my boots." Is the first thing he says to Roger after sitting down. 

He adjusts the seat and mirror, in case they do have to drive off. Roger glances sideways at him, his eyes are round in panic. Oliver remembers Roger asking Officer Leonard if he really had to be present during the raid. The answer was yes, mostly because Roger was the only one who knew what exact building was the target. They could not risk driving this far into the lion's den twice, hoping the Crew wouldn't catch onto anything suspicious. 

He thinks about Roger, as he looks at him now, fiddling with the cuffs of his denim jacket with an awful paleness to his skin. He doesn't have the face of a young man forced into acts of homosexuality and rape, but the soberness in his eyes reads another story entirely. 

Oliver remembers the pictures of Rogers back and the slashes, cuts and cigarette burns that had scarred him. 

Being here cannot be easy. Watching the squad blend into the darkness of the buildings surrounding the warehouse, cannot give him any peace, not until the people who violated him are in their orange jumpsuits, facing a life sentence that will outlast Rogers time in this world. 

"You know what?"

Roger glances at him, hesitant to take his eyes off the windshield in case someone was approaching them. All he gives Oliver is an impatient hum. 

Oliver smiles and reaches out to twist on the buttons on the car dashboard. "I could do with some radio now?"

Without asking for permission, he finds the correct switch and keeps pressing buttons until he hears the first decent tune to fill the two speakers in the front. The Sound Of Silence plays in the pitch-black darkness. The only light outside comes from the headlights of their own car. In this old industrial terrain, there are no streetlights and the stairs have shied away behind the clouds promising early morning rain. Something about the darkness makes Oliver more hopeful for the Special Commands team, it will only help serve the surprise element of the operation. 

Roger has sunken into his seat, but not in a relaxed manner, more like all energy has been sucked from his body and all there is left now is skin and bones under an oversized denim jacket. 

Oliver gives his knee a nudge with his own. 

"What are you going to do when you are free?"

Surprised by the soft-spoken question, Roger turns and shrugs. "I-- I don't know really. Never thought I'd get quite this far..." He thinks, before he decides, "A proper funeral for my mother maybe."

"That would be lovely."

The corners of Roger's lips lift somewhat, but it is more a grimace than a smile. Oliver remembers that she was killed and that Roger was forced into prostitution to stay off the streets. 

"She of all people deserves a proper funeral. So maybe I should save up a little, find myself a job, get a passport, a real drivers license-- not just an emergency one because I am under witness protection." Roger snorts. "You know what, Oliver. Have you ever been to the ballet?"

"The ballet? No, I don't suppose I have." He smiles kindly.

His stomach is twisted in nervous knots, but he thinks he might be distracting Roger enough to make this a bearable experience. 

"Are you a fan?" 

"My roommate is." Roger looks back outside the window briefly. They both find it dark and unmoving. "He really felt passionate about showing me the many forms of art that come together. I quite liked it, even though I fell asleep. I'd like to see the ballet again." 

"Is that your way of convincing me? I am unsure if it is very effective." Oliver laughs and Roger bites the inside of his cheek.

"You should hear Fred talk about it. He could convince Nikita Khrushchev to wear a dress and heels for him."

"Well that's a man I want to meet! Could be useful for an officer."

Roger's face sobers up and again he takes to staring out of the window with sharp intensity through the glass of his glasses. "He wouldn't do it to help a cop."

Sensing that he had overstepped a line, Oliver shuts his mouth and turns back into himself. He allows the music to flow between them instead of the chattering. He doesn't mind, but he hopes the Command team returns swiftly with good news. 

★☆★ __

_Freddie waits on the front porch with a cigarette and a cat under his arm when Rogers car comes rolling up to the house, bringing a dust cloud from the loose gravel road and the humming of the motor._

_A grin spreads across Freddie's cheeks as he struggles to hold onto his cigarette at the first sight of Roger getting out the car, without bothering to park it properly._

_"Honey, I'm home." Roger tosses him a loving smile._

_Freddie is approached with open arms and shining eyes behind thick black-rimmed glasses. He buries his face in Rogers now auburn hair with a long sigh._

_"Thank God you're home. Those two were killing me." Careful not to burn Roger, he moves his cigarette in the hand he's also using to cradle Tiffany. "How was it today?"_

_"There is talk about arresting Kevin. Agents are keeping him under surveillance and gathering evidence. Several of the prostitutes are willing to testify against him— there is a lot of evidence on drug dealing too and they have pictures of girls leaving his apartment." Roger is reluctant to move away from Freddie's embrace. He inhales deeply, taking in the smoke and the air of the countryside. They are situated a good two hours away from London, which is both aggravating and somewhat scary, but they have a direct line with the police station (who are aware that they are under witness protection and potential danger), plus without any close neighbours they can play their instruments on their desired volume, which is very handy when it comes to the drums._

_"That's fantastic news!" Freddie plants a sloppy kiss to Roger's cheek. He splutters an old complaint about his ticklish stubble, before taking Freddie's chin for a true kiss on the lips, planted firmly where lips belong. "Hm, see, this is why I miss you."_

_Roger takes Tiffany from Freddie. She doesn't complain beyond a snide meow. They walk up the porch and into the house side by side, Roger leaning onto Freddie and Freddie huffing smoke in his face._

_"Brian and John not doing it for you?"_

_"Not nearly as satisfying without you." Freddie promises and he earns a blush blossoming on Roger's cheeks. But when he asks, Roger blames it on the summer's heat._

_It reminds Freddie of how long they have been out here already. With barely any television signal or people to talk to, besides each other and the various artists they play to death on their record player._

_He can complain about it all day long, and he does, whenever Roger is out of earshot, but this was the only solution that would work longterm._

_Blanket immunity has given Roger the freedom to discuss his past with the police, without that past incriminating him. He doesn't trust the cops, not by far, but they all know their chances are the best if they involved law enforcement. Rogers information on the gang has given the police officers the chance to build a case against the whole crew, now that they are able to identify the individuals as a group of people committing crimes as a business, rather than odd cases here and there that only took out foot soldiers._

_Besides taking them down as an organization, persons are also being charged separately if their link to the crew does not cover all the crimes they have committed. Or like Kevin, when they are not part of the Bull Crew._

_Roger was a key person in the investigation, which has granted him the privilege of blanket immunity and witness protection._

_But with the cases growing, Roger is no longer in the limelight of the case, instead mass shooting, money laundering, human trafficking, drug import and sale-- the list goes on. Roger becomes only a fraction of the driving force in the case._

_All things said and done, Freddie was bound to give up the stall. He might get it back someday, another one, but he could no longer work in Kevin's environment, not after giving him the money, that was before Roger had gone to the police._

_Brian did not have a job in the first place, and John was worked to the bone for measly pay. Giving up his job and then the apartment they barely moved into weren't hardships by any means._

_Besides, Roger was getting out now and if all things go well, everyone involved in the Bull Crew will be either arrested or freed._

_"Lovies, Roger is home!" Freddie grins as he drags Roger into the living room of the country-house._

_It is larger than their apartment, but a lot less luxurious. All the floorboards squeak when they are touched and Freddie is convinced there is a ghost messing with the lamp above the kitchen table, John just calls it faulty, even though he has not managed to fix it yet._

_After a long day, Roger is welcomed by Brian, sitting cross-legged on the floor on the carpet they took with them from their old home and drags Roger into an embrace._

_Roger willingly falls into Brian's lap, kissing him long and hard with an irresistible urge._

_Brian laughs at the sudden weight he has to carry and nearly topples backwards onto the floor when Roger clings onto his neck like an octopus. "Don't drop me!"_

_"Don't jump on me."_

_"I thought you were happy to see me?" Roger teases between brief butterfly kisses on Brians lips and the corners. Freddie watches with a heart fixed with fondness. He leans against the back of the couch to wrap his arms around John._

_He pulls him flush against the backrest to plant his lips on his forehead. "Haven't forgotten about you."_

_"Sure you haven't. I used to be the new exciting boyfriends. I'm just the middle child now."_

_It is a joke, Freddie knows, because John does not hold onto bitterness where it isn't due. Still, he pats John's head and shushes him like one would soothe a baby. "You are still the youngest darling, you still got that going for yourself."_

_All three of them are smiling again, and Freddie can take an easy breath._

_"Not all hope is lost then." John chuckles._

_Eventually, everyone untangles themselves from each other and Roger even graces John with a kiss, crouched between his legs on the floor and leaning up for a welcome kiss. It is probably the best part of their day, besides going to bed then._

_Freddie makes everyone a cup of tea, while John passes Roger one of the government-issued cigarette. The house is large enough that Brian doesn't bitch about indoor smoking when they open the windows._

_As per usual, Roger snuggles up on the floor with Brian with his tea and a cigarette and tells them about his day. On good days, like today, he forgets to take off his glasses immediately, and they are blessed with the sight of Rogers enlarged eyes for another half an hour or more until he notices them._

_"How was it at the station?" Freddie asks after wedging himself in the corner of the couch with his feet in Johns lap and his drink his hands._

_Roger sighs, skimming his own tea with his spoon._

_"These policemen are clueless and bigoted."_

_"Bad then?" Brian asks, with a soothing hand that plays with the fine hairs at the back of Roger's neck._

_Roger hums at the unprompted massage, his tea for a moment forgotten. "Not too bad, really. The boy they have looking after me is quite adorable."_

_Brian's face twists into something ugly, but Freddie saves the mood with a joke. "Oh, why don't you invite him over next time." He jests, giving Roger a way out._

_"I don't think he swings that way." Roger adds, he looks at Brian and says, "He looks at me like I'm a rare fish in the aquarium."_

_"Well you are a rare species Rog, he should have seen you with the blond hair." Brian settles again. He continues the massage on Rogers lower neck that has Rogers eyes fluttering shut and his cigarette nearly slip out from between his fingers._

_"He did see me with the blond hair. He thought I was a woman."_

_His annoyed huff is met with their uncontained laughter. And when it dies down again naturally, Roger reopens his eyes._

_"Were you guys terribly bored?"_

_"No." John assures before anyone else can. He is still dipping in his teabag, liking it the strongest out of them all. "This is for the best anyway."_

_The guilt has been carried mostly by Roger, because in witness protection they are not allowed to contact anyone in the outside world directly. They can send letters to their family through the police station and receive letters through them too, but they can't share their location or phone number at the country house._

_This is challenging, for many reasons._

_1\. They are driving each other insane from the lack of variety in company._

_2\. Roger does not get to see Dominique anymore._

_3\. They miss their families._

_However inconvenient that may be, they know they are lucky to have gotten into this program and they wouldn't have him jeopardize their potential on a safe and joint future._

_Brian finishes his massage with a kiss to Rogers temple, making sure to let his lips linger on Rogers skin before he pulls away. "We will start with a clean slate."_

_"This might not be over for a long while." Roger grumbles and puffs around his cigarette in an agitated, nervous tick. "I don't know how long these things last."_

_"After you have shown them Gillian's house, then your work will be done until you are on the stand in court. You will be home with us then, that will be really good for you." Brian looks at John, and then at Freddie, asking them to back him on this._

_John gives a heated nod. "And you said that they keep all the records and files at Gillian's place. That will only give more evidence for the court cases, don't you think?"_

_"Yes..." Roger says. "But if they aren't all home when they raid the locations? What if someone escapes and they will take revenge on all of us witnesses who helped bringing down their colleagues and bosses?"_

_It is a legitimate fear that from time to time keeps all of them up at night._

_The chances of a footsoldier taking over the crew when all the bosses have disappeared into prisons and their locations are raided, tools and money confiscated, are low._

_But if one of the commanding bosses higher in the hierarchy survives, the ones that have knowledge of running the crew or its branches, there will be a high risk for many of the witnesses who have volunteered to testify against the Crew._

_Freddie firmly believes one musn't think in doom scenarios, it will only haunt the present._

_"And if all else fails, we all move to South America!" He jokes proudly and earns hearted laughter from his boyfriends that frees them from the potential dangers that might find them in the future._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dkfkkdsksksksk so. Ask any questions you might have. Thank you for reading, beauties!


	34. Of Witness and Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The raids are done. What next?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. 👀 
> 
> I have no intro. Lets do this (this 10k tho)

They are already waiting out on the front porch when Rogers car comes racing into sight with the orange glow of sunrise on his tail. 

There is nobody about around to mind the speed limit and when he makes it to the country house, Roger makes no show of parking the car in any decent fashion. Once on the property, he hits the breaks, unbuckles his seatbelt like an unpleasant restraint and jumps out the car, red-faced and agitated. 

"They got them all."

Brian, Freddie and John have all clambered down the porch stairs to make it to Rogers side as fast as they can. Despite having climbed out the car and telling them exactly what they wanted to hear all night, Roger looks raw and is shaking. 

Brian notices it too and is the first to reach Roger and wrap an arm around his waist. He tackles Roger in a sideways hug that keeps Roger from sinking through his own knees.

John and Freddie step around him to look at Roger, who in return is staring off into space over Brians shoulder.

"They got them all?" Freddie asks to confirm, to be sure. Each of them are hesitant to celebrate when Roger is not. 

John watches Freddie reach out and sling an arm around Rogers back that forces Brian and Roger closer. In the motion Roger is rocked back into the moment and meets Freddie's calculating eye. 

"Yes? The whole bunch of 'em." Roger pulls back far enough to shake his head without head-butting Brian. "Gillian, Frank, Alan, Marco, Dave-- and him."

"Richard is in jail?" John tries not to sound too excited, but when Roger nods, his heart does a leap of joy in his chest. 

He breathes and releases the air he didn't know he was holding so high in his chest. He inhales sharply and fast and for the first time tonight, he can smell the dew on the grass and the beginning of autumn in the air. He can't believe it. _They did it._

"And their second in command? Their right-hand men? Are they caught too?"

"Yes they were all home. All the targets were home." Roger sounds more grounded now, like he suddenly releases what he is saying too. As if, before the words were spoken out loud, the news had not really hit him. A hesitant smile tugs on the corner of his lip and his limp arms wrap tighter around Brian's neck. "They took them all. All of them."

"Roger--"

Brian is silenced by numb lips pressing against his own. The kiss is brief but certain. Roger pulls back as fast as he had begun the kiss. 

Perplexed by his own action, Roger pulls back to face Freddie. 

"I saw them pull Gillian in the car-- they handcuffed him and the lot that was staying with him." He purses his lips and closes his eyes. Something about his eyes makes it too easy to read him and his mix of emotions he himself can't comprehend, while his expressive face gives away every inner turmoil he cannot voice. It’s almost unfair to Roger, how easy he is to read. "Andrei was there, and some working girls. They arrested him and everyone who was inside."

"You sound quite shocked and not very relieved, darling." Freddie peers up at him with concerned suspicion. He looks a lot like Jer when he does that and reaches out to cup Rogers cheeks between his palms. "You are quite pale."

"I _am_ shocked. I don't know why I don't feel relieved, it just doesn't feel real."

"But it is-- I promise it is."

Brian closes in on them and jokes, "Maybe I should give you a pinch, proof to you you're not dreaming this."

Roger is still leaning into Freddie's touch and covers Freddie's hands on his face with his own. "It feels like a dream."

"It is a dream!" Freddie exclaims with joy dripping off his words. "This is everything we have fought for, everything we wanted."

"Guys-- Enough of that, let's get Roger inside so he can tell us the rest."

Brian and Freddie sour at Johns serious tone, but Rogers shoulders relax a little now that the attention is shifted to getting him into the house. Freddie making a fuss about the humidity and cons of summer. Brian leading Roger inside the house with a hand on his lower back.

John closes the door behind them and lingers in the back while Freddie goes straight for the kitchen to make everyone some tea, John doesn't miss him reaching for the rum and adding enough to everyone's cup. 

Brian helps Roger sit on the couch. Upon arrival he is ambushed by two cats, whom he takes into his arms and scoops against his chest, only finding a careful balance when Freddie hands him his tea. 

"I put a little something in there." He comments wryly.

John gets the next cup. He waits for Freddie and Brian to decide where they want to sit. Between shared glances, it is decided Freddie will sit down on the carpet by Roger's feet, while Brian scoots up close to him on the couch. Something about Rogers energy is low and off. The other two sense it as well, but don't know how to mask their own enthusiasm over the triumph of today. 

John decides to sit down next to Freddie, he curls up close against his side and Freddie rewards him with a warm lipped kiss, hot from the tea and rum. 

Roger is swirling his drink and peers down into the cup. Freddie had decided on a simple black tea, nothing sweet added but the rum. Perhaps he is hoping to get Roger sleepy, John doubts that they will get any shuteye today, with the sun peaking underneath the curtains slits and the birds chirping the celebration of dawn. 

Freddie has made it halfway through his drink before it becomes too much for him to hold back. John can nearly feel him vibrate with energy against him. 

"Will you tell us what the police said about what will happen next?"

After a long gulp of tea, and rum, a lot of rum, Roger nods yes. 

"Next thing is pressing charges. Tomorrow-- I mean, today that is, they will raid other buildings to gather evidence and confiscate any drugs and money they find. Arrest whoever they find."

"Are there many buildings?" Brian is rubbing soothing circles on Roger's shoulder. With each rotation, Roger sinks further against Brians side. 

"Not many important ones. They have Gillians place, where they keep the files. They entered Alans place, where most of the rougher types live and store their assault rifles. I know they successfully got into the drug storage and packing place by the docks-- also managed by Alan. Frank had some prostitutes in locations they'll get into today, plus some minor dealers they are seeking to arrest because they got enough evidence already to charge them. But aside from that, I think it's over."

"I can't believe it's over." Freddie exhales through his nose.

John nudges him as a warning. Freddie sends him a bored look. "What? After months of hiding and jumping through hoops-- sending Crystal to Scotland? Giving Kevin 2000 pounds... While we should have just gone to the police. It sounds surreal." 

"We could not have known that Roger would get immunity or witness protection." Brian points out correctly. "Else he would have been dead now-- or in jail."

"I know. I am just surprised this was such an easy outcome."

"Guys--" John warns again and his tone is edging sharper. 

Roger is no longer looking at any of them. His eyes are focused on whatever he is seeing in his suspiciously empty cup. Roger is somewhat of a lightweight John knows from previous experience with him, the drink has at least brought the color (and then some) back on his face. 

Freddie and Brian shut their mouths finally. Brian at least has the decency to look a little ashamed. 

"This has not been easy. This has been full of risks and incredibly scary and uncomfortable for Roger to deal with. Let's not forget that."

"It's alright Deacky." Roger says, he reaches out for Brians hand to take in his own. He makes for quite the sight, with two cats balancing on his thighs and his hands occupied with tea, or holding Brian. "I am grateful, so very grateful that this worked out. I just can't seem to accept to comprehend the six worst people in my life are under arrest. All six of them, and then their handymen. I never even dared to dream of an outcome like this? I don't feel ready to believe I am safe. I don't know how that feels even when I am."

Freddie gets onto his knees and leans up to bring his face closer to Roger. 

"It will take time to get used to. He isn't out there, nobody is out there organizing a search against you."

"One-eyed Larry is gone. Roy is gone." Roger breathes out an airy chuckle. Finally, he is smiling, John thinks, and he allows himself a little smile in return. "What the hell? They are gone from the streets."

"Yes they are." Freddie laughs just before Roger bows his head to leans in and connect their lips in a kiss. 

John enjoys watching, when his eyes drift over to Brian, he is watching the exchange with a fond smile too. Rogers eyes are sparkling with joy when they reopen. "I am free."

"We are still under witness protection until the court case has finished." John reminds him cautiously, "But aside from that, you are freed. You have freed yourself."

"I couldn't have done without you guys." Roger reminds him back, in the same tone if not more playful. 

Brian scoffs and squeezes their enlaced fingers. "Oh stop it. Who was it that went to the police station every day? Helped them puzzle together every piece until they could crack one of the hardest, high profile cases their career will ever see?"

Roger shuts his mouth and sips at the last remains of his drink with a sunken realization that something has indeed changed.

His forehead smoothens out and his shoulders relax. His jaw unclenches and his breathing has slowed down. This is the Roger who came back from rehab. The Roger John has fallen madly in love with. 

"We should have toasted on Rogers freedom." Freddie humors, after also finishing his cup and swirling the remaining grainy bits at the bottom.

John doesn't see why not, he holds up his own empty cup in the air, saying, "To Roger, and his well-earned, long-lasting freedom and long life of safety."

"-- With us." Adds Brian.

John refrains from rolling his eyes. "I assumed." He adds pointedly, "But as Brian said, with us, if you'll have us."

Roger shakes his brown hair out of his face. "Always."

"Alright then! Cheers to Roger."

"Cheers!" Brian, Freddie and Roger all agree in different tones, but the same enthusiasm and optimism for the future. 

★☆★

Roger can't hear the knock on the door when he is drumming, John knocks anyway, out of principle. There is no pause to the rhythmical smashing that comes from the once study room they transformed into a mini-studio between the four of them. 

The drums take up most of the space, but they still managed the cramp in the piano and their guitars and amplifiers. 

Roger stops playing abruptly when John pushes his way inside. 

"Hi." He smiles, still out of breath and using the hand holding both sticks to wipe the sweat from his forehead. 

John leans against the doorframe and folds his arms over his chest. "How are you doing?"

"I was thinking of lyrics to the song I was working on. Would you like to hear it?" Roger's eyes lit up with inspiration. 

John nods readily, watching Roger grasp his opened journal resting on the snare drum. He flips over two pages and inevitably squints adorably without his glasses. 

When he finds it, he lifts his eyes to check if John is still paying attention, when it is confirmed he is, Roger reads, "Get you high heeled guitar boots and some groovy clothes. Get a hairpiece on your chest. And a ring through your nose. Find a nice little man who says he's gonna make you a real big star."

"This about you getting famous, leaving us all in the dust?" John teases with an eye crinkling smile. 

Roger closes his journal, shaking his head. "Never! Never without you." He shakes out his hair from his face, some strands keep sticking from the sweat. "Everything alright?"

John assures him with a nod. 

"Just checking in on you, you were quiet during lunch."

"Just trying to wrap my head around things." Roger speaks in a mellow, thoughtful tone. "Fred and Bri seem to think it's all over-- but it feels too soon to relax."

"After living in fear for nearly a year, I can't blame you. We don't blame you. Don't listen too much to those loudmouths. I think they are too busy celebrating now to see how much there still needs to be done."

"Thank you." Roger exhales. He puts down his sticks to grab the glass of water by his feet. "I keep worrying the phone will ring and they'll tell me there has been a mistake, someone has escaped, they'll press charges against me after all-- whatever." Rolling his eyes at himself, Roger scoffs. "It makes no sense anyway."

"You're in your right to be worried, but I wish you got to relax at least until we hear more."

John pushes away from the door and rounds the drum set to stand behind Roger and puts his hands on his shoulders. Roger freezes with the glass halfway to his mouth when John starts kneading his palms and thumb into the tense muscles beneath his shirt.

It doesn't surprise him to find Roger so stiff and rigid after the stress they have been under, what does surprise him is the encouraging moan that falls from his slightly parted lips.

John bites back a smile. He puts more force behind his hands and starts earnestly massaging him. 

"That good?"

"Fuck, yes."

Roger bows forward in bliss. John leans in to kiss the back of his head, silently missing Rogers golden locks. 

It is different being here and the relief they had hoped for has not seeped quite into Rogers yet. 

There is mostly dread for something to go wrong and being back to square one, after four months of witness protection, before that isolation and prior to that his weeks in rehabilitation. But if that were to happen, there is nothing they can do about that now. Roger doesn't allow himself to celebrate the win, because he thinks it will backlash with double the effect if something were to go wrong. 

"You know," John leans in lower so his lips brush over Rogers earshell. "The other two have just gone out for some groceries in the village, fresh bread and something sugary for tonight."

Roger turns in his seat to look at him, his eyes glassed over with a haze John identifies as lust. Between this moment and the next, Roger pushes himself to his feet and puts his hands on Johns hips, lazy hooded eyes cast down to his suddenly dry lips. Without resistance, he is pulled flush against Rogers front. 

"What did you have in mind?" Roger asks in a tone reduced to a rumbled husk. 

John chuckles at himself and shakes his head. "I was thinking you might want a bath, now that the house is quiet, but I think I didn't quite read the room."

The corners of Roger's lips quirk up in a grin.

Everything else, the glass, the music, drums and sticks are forgotten when Roger takes John by the hand and pulls him down the hallway with a newfound drive.

Between the studio and the bedroom Roger bursts into a fit of giggles that is so infectious that if John doesn't join in his chest might burst. He is brought to the bedroom, Roger goes in first, leaving it to John to close the door, only for him to be pushed hard against the creaking wood.

"Fuck--" He chuckles, "Here I thought you might need to relax." 

Roger steps up close into his space, crowding John against the door like a prey fallen victim to its predator. One with dreamy blue eyes and tinted lips-- that is. And a prey that is considerably taller than him. "I do need to relax," Roger leans his forehead against Johns. His eyes lower down to Johns trousers and the belt holding it up. A grin moulds his flustered face. "I know just the way."

John deliberately keeps his arms wrapped loosely around Roger's waist, giving him control of their movement and pace. 

They have done this before, since their entrance in the witness protection program, the four of them have explored more intimate times together, but never just John and Roger-- and never more than sensual handjobs. The two of them have never been alone with the intent for more beyond a series of kisses. 

He has to ask, even when Roger is already extracting the clasp on his belt. "Are you sure?"

Roger snorts and instead of wasting his time on a verbal response, he pulls Johns belt out of the loops and chucks it to the side. Next, their lips find each other in a natural sigh. Roger's lips are soft and wet against his own, John tries to savour the velvet warmth even when Roger is distracting him unzipping his trousers and pulling them down his thighs. 

"Rog," He says between kisses. "Hm, Rog. In a hurry?"

"Shut up."

John takes a strong grip on Rogers hips. "Make me." 

He steps out of his trousers and pushes him backwards until the back of his legs hit the bed frame and Roger falls back onto the bed with an oof. 

He lands with his arms spread wide, he tugs his legs up and spreads his knees before John. John climbs in the welcoming space. 

He hooks his fingers under Rogers waistband. Before he pulls them down, he checks Rogers face for any discomfort or hesitation.

"Alright?"

"Yes, it's alright. Please."

With permission, John slides Rogers trousers down his ass and off his body. Both of them are obviously aroused in their underwear. Nothing is left to the imagination in the flimsy pair Roger is sporting, hugging him in the best places. 

His breathing has gone shallow and with him on his back and the steady rise and fall of his chest, he and John both simultaneously realize their roles seem to have reversed. 

Something feels different than normal. Roger is pent up with energy and sorrow. Underneath his fan of lashes, he gives John the most earnest of trusting gazes. 

John strokes his hands down Roger's legs, from his knees down to his thighs. He kneads his fingers into his meaty flesh. Rogers skin is burning with arousal. Under the touch, Roger shivers and smiles sideways at him. 

"What now?" 

John bows his head to kiss the top of Roger's knee. 

"You're beautiful. I could just look at you." He says, making Roger laugh, as if he were joking. John pointedly squeezes his inner thighs. "I mean it."

"Well, I want more than that."

"Hm." John rubs circles with his thumbs on Rogers skin, slowly circling closer and closer to his hardening cock. Throbbing with interest in his underwear. "What do you want? Remember, you can tell me exactly what you want."

Roger closes his eyes and his mouth falls open in pleasure. "Deacky..." He chuckles breathlessly. "Don't tempt me."

He keeps kissing the top of his knee with soft, slow, lingering kisses. His lips leave a wet patch on Rogers prickling skin. His hands have closed in on Rogers cock, Roger lifts his hips to hurry him up. John uses one hand to keep his hip pinned to the bed, and the other to wrap around Rogers cock through the flimsy fabric of his panties. 

"I'm tempting you." John whispers, before he cranes his neck to kiss down the length of Rogers leg, manipulating his limb, pressing it to the side and putting it over John's waist to give John more space between Roger's leg. "I'm tempting you. You want this?"

Roger curls his hands into the bedding with a breathy moan. 

"Fuck yes."

John grins against his thigh, on his way to Rogers crotch, he nibbles on the sensitive inner side of his thighs. His leg twitches in pleasure, John hums and holds still there, just long enough to suckle a mark on the creamy skin there.

Not once do his hands stop working on Rogers cock. The waistband of the panties nearly gives against the straining cock. 

John bites down a little above the bite mark-- Roger hisses in shock. "Fuck. John, be careful."

"Mhm, sorry."

He sits up just far enough to lean on one elbow, but only after a soothing kiss on the sore spots he just created. 

Roger looks unravelled and flustered from the attention, in the most sinful way. With just the two of them, John can give him his full attention and Roger is basking in it. His lips are a sinful red from being bitten raw, his cheeks are a pinkish flush a beautiful contrast to the pale fear that had taken onto Roger, and that is not even to speak of his, desperate, sparkling, sorrowless eyes.

The last four months have seemingly forgotten. 

"What do you want?"

"Touch me." Roger spreads his legs wantonly. "I want your mouth, please."

The tips of Rogers ears are beet red. He is surprised by the extend of his own arousal. 

Johns mouth waters only at the privilege of being given permission to Roger like that. They have never gotten this far, not the two of them or the four of them. 

Roger has jerked himself off watching them fuck or blow each other. They have jerked Rogers cock for him, when he got comfortable enough to do so and eventually Roger had decided he wanted to give them handjobs as well, sometimes two at the time. Sometimes while playing with Brians cock while John fucks him on his hands and knees or other varieties of the sort. 

In the last months they sure have gotten creative, giving Roger a show, touching him for as much as they allow him. 

But this is new. 

"Baby, are you sure?" John asks tenderly, still keeping a light up and down rubbing motion on Rogers leaking cock. "We can just do this too, that is also fine with me, whatever you want."

Roger throws his arm over his eyes, his teeth flash in a delightful grin.

"You're such a tease, please touch me. And don't make me beg."

To quiet him down, John bends down to press a trail of wet kisses down from Rogers belly button following his treasure trail. At the same time he pulls down on his underwear and wriggles it down his ass, at the first opportunity his cock springs free. 

"Roger," John exhales against his length. He takes a hold of Rogers cock, keeping it still, he nuzzles him slowly, teasing him. Roger jerks his hips up, "Tell me if you want me to stop." 

"Don't stop." 

Permission granted, John grabs Rogers hips to pin him down to the mattress and prevent him from wriggling away. 

The sight before him is not a disappointment. 

Rogers flushed cockhead is already drooling cum, throbbing with need. 

He licks his lips, eyeing his treat. 

"Alright," John pushes his lips out and places a light kiss to the glistening head. "I've wanted to taste you for so long." Another kiss. "You're perfect. You taste so good." 

"Even with my cock in your mouth, you don't shut up."

John swallows down his own chuckle with a sloppier kiss, this time allowing Rogers cock to push slightly into his mouth. The warmth and pressure make Roger moan quietly. 

His legs fall open, like magic. 

He takes Roger in deeper, with each slide, leaving spit dripping down his shaft. 

Something about the taste and husky smell turns John on so much he has to grind himself against the bed for some release. He swallows around Rogers cock, it is not nearly as long as Brians or thick as Freddie's, making it an easy mouthful for John. 

His practised throat skillfully accommodates Rogers length. He can taste the bitter cum already dribbling from the slit. John chases the taste and dips his tongue in, making Roger's thighs twist and his fingers claw at the mattress. His string of helpless moans are making it hard for John to stay sane. 

It doesn't take long for John to deepthroat Roger completely. He buries his nose in the soft hairs at the base of Rogers cock. 

He really has to keep Roger pinned down now to keep him from buckling his hips up. 

John has long mastered his gag-reflex, but not when caught off-guard. 

"John, Deacky..."

Roger sounds like he's somewhere else entirely. John wonders briefly if this is the first blow job Roger has ever received. 

John bobs his head up and down once, just once and slowly to feel Roger slide between his lips and get his cock nice and wet with his spit. Roger's hands fly to John's hair and he gasps.

"Deacky, I won't last. I won't last."

"Hmhm."

John takes him all the way back up, until he can wrap his lips just around the head and suckle gently on the sensitive nerves there. He laps up any cum that keeps steadily dripping out. 

He doesn't think Roger will last, from the looks of it.

John opens his eyes and stares him in the eye Roger while he takes him all the way back into his throat. 

Roger's eyes roll back into his head and he drops his head back onto the pillows with a long drawn out groan that makes his chest grumble sexily. 

In his mouth, John can feel Rogers cock pulsing with need. No matter how much Roger would want this to last, John can't see him lasting.

He doesn't mind. All he can think about now is hollowing his cheeks and bopping up and down Rogers shaft with sloppy slurping to give him the full experience of what it is like to have your mind blown. Literally.

Roger is trying earnestly not to squirm too much, but fails completely. 

Somewhere along the way, John has to pull off with an obnoxious bop to ask what he is doing, but when his eyes zero in on Roger, he sees something he isn't expecting.

John swallows thickly, and eyes the lube Roger is now holding. 

"How did you--?"

"Sorry," Rogers voice is raspy and he is breathless, chest hammering with his rapidly beating heart. Johns own breath is cut short at the sight of his boyfriend, at how dishevelled and bleary-eyed Roger is in his arousal, all caused by John. Roger holds the lube a little tighter. "I just thought, maybe..." He rolls his eyes at his own shyness. "I thought maybe you could also. You know?"

"Finger you?" John asks seriously, mostly for the sake of clarity, partly to see if Rogers cheeks could get any redder. 

They can. 

"If you could? If you're gentle, I think it would be nice... To have both at once." Roger explains with wide blown eyes. The blue of his iris is barely visible with his dilated pupils. 

John sits up on his knees and uses his stance to overpower Roger and push him back against the bed with a hand to his chest. 

Roger lays down with a smile, large and trusting, if uncharacteristically reserved. It is quite a request, John realizes, it is a large leap from a blowjob to trusting John with something even more intimate. John leans down and attaches his lips to Rogers. 

He makes Roger taste himself on his lips. He pushes his tongue past Roger's lips and swirls it around Rogers, giving in to the warm inviting slide that leaves both of them moaning for more. 

When Roger is distracted, John reaches for the lube between them. 

Without a thought Roger hands it over to him. John smirks into the kiss, triumphantly, he pulls away to shuffle back down to Rogers crotch once again, where Rogers spit glistening cock is waiting even harder than before. 

"Of course I'll finger you. I'd do whatever you wanted, remember?"

John kisses the tip of his cock. Rogers cock bops uncontrollably at the teasing touch. 

Next, John unscrews the cap on the lube bottle. He settles comfortably between Rogers legs, kisses his cock, again and again, making Roger a blabbering mess above him. 

John pours a generous amount of lube into his palm and coats his fingers. 

It must have been a while since Roger has been stretched like that, and he approaches him carefully, kindly, distracting him with his lips around his cock. Roger is eager but still tenses momentarily when John pushes against his entrance with one finger. 

He pulls off his cock just long enough to tell him, "Tell me if you want to stop, or slow down. Okay? We don't have to."

"But I want to." Roger wraps his legs around Johns torse for as far as he can. "Please, please. I won't last, John. I want to feel it."

"Alright," John kisses his cock again, giving himself a moment to catch his breath. "Alright. Sit back, enjoy yourself."

"I'm sure I will." Roger chuckles when his cock is swallowed whole again by Johns warm inviting mouth. 

This time it doesn't stay just with one pleasant sensation, but John pushes his lube coated finger past Rogers tight ring, so he can enter him properly. Roger is tight, undeniably out of practice. John does not push all the way in. He waits just past the entrance, allowing Roger to get used tot he stretching sensation. 

None of it should hurt, but just in case, John works his tongue around Rogers cock to distract him from any discomfort. 

His finger engulfed with Rogers tight heat is something he will contemplate on later, John can't allow himself to get too distracted when he is taking care of Roger. Yet his cock is straining in desperation against his waistband. He reminds himself strictly to focus on the task before him. 

That is Roger, with his flushed skin and breathy moans that would leave anyone legs weak.

John thinks Roger is good to go another moment later, he slides his finger further inside, his digit is slippery from the lube, making the sensation comfortable and slick for Roger. 

"Deacky-- Fuck. Fuck, please."

It is a multitasking job to keep his mouth occupied as well as coordinate his finger. He slides it out, almost all the way, before pressing back inside. 

Roger gasps and groans above him. The double pleasure paying off instantly. 

He hums around Rogers cock, tasting an obvious increase in pre-cum that leaks out of his erection. John slurps it down and keeps swallowing earnestly, while working his finger in and out with surprising ease. 

John slackens his throat and at the same time cranes his finger, Rogers body goes tense as a bow, from the arch of his back to his toes curling into the bedding, John has him right on the edge. 

His fingers tangle into John's hair, begging him and his mouth not to go anywhere.

But Roger can't speak now, his mouth too occupied with incoherent curses and moans, variations of Johns name he never knew would turn him on. 

Something about this moment prides John. 

Roger is on his back beneath him, trusting and shuddering with overwhelming pleasure. 

"Deacky--" Roger warns him.

John closes his eyes and tries stubborner than before to swallow and slurp sloppily around Rogers cock, while also pumping his finger and out of his now loose hole. The squelching noises his body is making, makes it hard for John not to cum either. 

Roger tries and fails to pull John off his cock when his orgasm can no longer be kept at bay. 

John deliberately keeps suckling on Rogers throbbing cock, until his hot seed shoots out of him and John is eager to swallow that down too. The bitterness is only an afterthought. 

Roger clenches down around his finger. John cranes it deeper, knowing he has graced Rogers prostate when Roger cries out in a high, tireless moan. 

The orgasm comes in strong waves. Rogers cock twitches and splutters in John's mouth until John has sucked Roger dry.

He keeps his finger pressed against Rogers inner pleasure spot, until Rogers shaking hands try to push him away. 

John exits him slow and carefully, but not without a teasing smack on the bum afterwards. He also lets go of his rapidly softening cock when the overstimulation causes shockwaves to jump through Roger's muscles. 

Still catching his own breath, John sits upright and leans back onto his palms, smiling down at Roger.

His boyfriend is a boneless mess, with a heaving chest, happy tear streaks running down his cheeks and his legs pooling limply around John's waist. 

John searches around on the mattress for Roger's hand and when located, grasps it with his own. 

There are no words to describe the joy bursting from his ribcage now. He feels privileged and relaxed, having Roger like this, alone. 

Roger eventually finds the strength to peel his eyes open, but they are heavy with sleep he couldn't catch yesterday, or this morning. He is smiling and radiating in his post-orgasm afterglow. 

"Your mouth is quite useful, y'know. When you put it to use."

John chuckles and brings Rogers hand to his lips to kiss the back of his palm. "Is that your way of saying thank you?"

Roger's eyes are bedazzled with sparkling mirth. He lets them drift shut again, and then sinks further into the bedding with a physical exhale. "Alright, thank you. That wasn't bad."

"I sure hope it wasn't." 

John reluctantly lets go of Roger's hand, but only to rush on his bare feet to the bathroom and fetch him a washcloth. When John returns to the bedroom he is barely awake. 

"Yeah-yeah. I'm evil." John answers to Rogers annoyed grumble, when he is flipped onto his stomach for John to clean him up between his legs, before the lube gets gluey and uncomfortable. He also takes the opportunity to clean up any excess sweat, beneath his arms, around the neck and beneath the bridge of his nose.

The water is cold by the time John finishes caressing Roger, but the ministrations have stroked him to sleep once more. 

John gladly ignores the hardness in his own pants to tend to Roger first. He throws the washcloth in the general direction of the hamper and with throws the sheets over Rogers body to keep him warm during his nap. 

Roger rumbles something incoherent in his sleep when John sits on the edge of the bed and rakes his fingers through the brown mess that is now Roger's hair. 

Although he misses the blond, he knows he will get it back. 

John only realizes how long he has been sitting there, hand-combing Rogers hair, until he hears Freddie and Brian come through the front door with their groceries half an hour later. 

★☆★

The phone call comes at eight in the morning, two days after. 

John will never forget the terrified look in Roger's eyes when he stiffens in his chair at the first shrill tones of the ancient ringing phone. 

Brian is the one who gets up and hurries down to it and find out who is calling. While John and Roger are still frozen in place, Freddie has found his way to Rogers side, assuring sweet nothings into his ear. 

They fall on deaf ears. Their head turn to Brian when he comes back into the kitchen, face white as a sheet. 

"It's the police station."

"What do they want?" Freddie asks, working himself onto his feet, pushing his chair back and then Rogers. "What did they say?"

Brian shakes his head. "They wanted to speak to Roger."

"But what did they say? They must have said something, you look like a ghost Darling. What's going on?"

While Freddie is still questioning Brian, Roger has gotten up and slid past Brian into the hallway to answer the call. John finally shakes himself out of his haze, but his heart is beating too loud for him to even hear what Brian is saying two steps away from him. The rapid pumping resembles that of a thousand drums and his blood flows through his veins so fast, he might black out.

His body is on auto-pilot when he pushes away from the table and gets to his feet. He isn't dressed, neither are the others. They had all just tumbled out of bed, stomachs growling for food, which resulted into a lazy breakfast.

John follows Roger into the hallway, passing both Freddie and Brian speaking in hushed voices between themselves.

There is a heaviness he feels and can't shake off when he sees Roger on the phone, he too has a sick color to his skin. He grips the phone hard where he holds it to his ear and his eyes are wide and unblinking in disbelief. 

Before John can ask what is wrong or his feet can carry him further, Roger ends the call by putting the phone back against the wall.

He turns to John, with the same, blank stare, he makes eye contact with him. 

"I need to identify them."

"Who?" John asks needlessly, stupidly. 

Roger's eyes blink once. One time. That is all. "You know who."

Immediately Freddie jumps in, bullying John to the side to get to Roger and clasp his arms in a tight grip, forcing him to look at him. 

"Roger, you don't have to go. If you aren't ready for this, you don't have to."

"You know I have to." Roger responds like a programmed robot would, stiff and mono-toned. He shakes his head. "I have blanket immunity, only because I am a witness. I have witness protection, only for being a witness."

"It all comes down to this?" Brian butts in. He comes to stand next to John and his giant presence is a comforting one. "After all this time, after all the research and all the hard work they have put into the investigation, they rely on you to identify the suspects?"

"This was bound to happen one way or another." Roger exhales through his nose. He brings his hands to his face and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He is barely awake. "Whether it be now or in a few months in the courtroom." 

Brian seems tightly winded and Freddie is not doing any better. Freddie keeps an arm wrapped around Roger and pulls him into the bedroom. "You ought to get dressed before you go."

"And you are not going alone today." Brian comments before the two of them can disappear around the corner. 

They had been ordered by the police that during his necessary trips back into the city, Roger was only to go straight to the station and back, plus that nobody was allowed to come with, to minimize travelling and the chances of anyone identifying Roger by identifying one of them. 

"You know they don't want me to--"

"If they will just drop that bomb on you, you'll need support. Surely they must understand that if you have to face your abuses right out of the blue." They have all gradually shuffled into the bedroom to watch Freddie pull out some clothes for Roger, grumbling in irritation at the police. After Roger, Freddie was the least keen on the police. He knows by far the most people to be convicted of homosexual acts in public spaces. He puts his foot down when handing Roger a bundle of clothes, some kindness seeps back into his demeanour. "You deserve at least some moral support while there, don't take all of us, just one. I don't want you to be alone there."

Roger holds the clothes against his chest. his face is stiff with emotions he is working very hard on suppressing. Something tells John that Rogers therapist would nit be very happy with this situation, which is also why Freddie isn't. 

"One of you will come with me?" He asks once. He glances between Freddie and Brian, and last at John. John realizes he hasn't said a word yet. 

He wants to say something, but the words die in his throat. Luckily Brian steps in and says, "You never have to do anything alone. One of us will come with you. If the police don't like it, we can wait in the hallway if you need it, but we will be there."

Roger gets dressed, in complete silence. There is no need to talk when the emotions cast across his eyes so fiercely. 

The other three hover behind him like ghosts with no purpose of haunting. 

Brian is the first to bring it up. 

"Who's coming with him?" He asks in a hushed tone. Roger doesn't look up, but John knows he can hear them fine. "I don't think he should go alone."

"He won't." Freddie hisses. His eyebrows are knitted together in concentration. "I'm uncomfortable with him going there at all, unannounced. They must have known they needed him today at least twenty-four hours ago?"

"I would say so. This smells fishy... You think something might be up?"

"If they want him to identify people, perhaps there is question whether they arrested the correct people at all." Freddie turns around and when he finds John is staring off into space, somewhere behind the point of Roger's shoulder across the room, Freddie gives Johns arm a tug to pull him back to reality. "What do you think, Deacks?"

He shrugs his left shoulder. He doesn't know, but like them he has a bad feeling about this situation and the abruptness of the call. 

Roger finishes dressing up and meets them all in the hallway. His eyes are hollow and sunken, the two days of sleep he had won, seem to have drained from his body in a matter of ten minutes. 

Before he reaches for his coat or shoes, he asks, "Which one of you is coming with me?"

John half expects all eyes to turn on him. He doesn't pay any mind to Freddie and Brian, who are also expecting him to take this on, but John rather focuses on Roger, who first looked at him before the others. It is a sign of favouritism. Not in every case, but in this, he certainly has gained favour with Roger. Since the very first time they spoke about Roger using Brians pills, over half a year ago, they have become partners in crime and confrontation.

He expects to be the one that pulls his coat over his sleepshirt and follows Roger into the car they had gotten from the government. 

Roger plucks himself into the driver's seat. He has taken to driving as much as he can since getting his license. 

Freddie and Brian stand on the front porch to wave them off into the sunrise. Their faces are tense with worry about what is really going on, but Freddie fakes a smile for them nonetheless. 

The car ride is mostly silent, aside from the radio. 

When a song they both like comes on, John notes that Roger turns the volume up and taps his foot to the rhythm. 

Most of the journey is from the countryside straight into the inner circles of London. The car's windows are tinted, that prevents people from seeing who's inside the vehicle. 

As they get closer to the station, they both grow more nervous. There is a discreet parking location for Roger behind the station, safely gated amongst other police cars. John wants to say something before they leave the car, but all the words he can think of are not comforting how Freddie would be, or wise like Brians lectures. All he can offer is a hand on Roger's shoulder, followed by a tight squeeze.

"You don't have to talk to any of them. You don't have to." 

Roger finds it within himself to smile stiffly. 

Together they exit the car. From there they can take the back entrance. 

An officer is already waiting for their arrival there. He recognizes Roger instantly, but doesn't react well to Johns presence.

"I'm sorry-- excuse me," He blocks the way in, eyes wide and confused as he eyes John down. "Who are you?"

"One of my flatmates, John." Roger interjects. He puts a hand on John's chest, asking him to step down before the kid pisses him off. He is a young-looking bloke, inexperienced and badgeless from what John observes. "You can trust him, Oliver. He is under witness protection too."

Oliver visibly bites the inside of his cheek. He looks around himself, twice over his shoulder. John has never seen someone quite so cowardly. 

"You know you shouldn't travel together. I'm not sure if he is allowed in."

"Look, Oliver." John takes the hand Roger has put on his hand and puts it back against Rogers own body. A polite smile twists John's face. He clenches his jaw hard enough to burst his temples. "Roger is being asked to identify his abusers today, the people who have first handedly assaulted him since he was a teenager. And since I doubt you will be holding his hand, I am here. If you have a problem with that, please get your supervisor so I can explain to them that--"

"There is no need for that."

A man in a real uniform and grey hair steps into the doorway after forcing Oliver behind him. He smiles at Roger, lifting his hand in greeting, before offering it to John.

They shake hands. He introduces himself in a gruff voice that promises nothing good. 

"Officer Leonard. I am sorry for the ruckus, we have been working nonstop these past few days. I don't think my wife remembers my face."

"With a big case like this." John squeezes the hand that's shaking his tightly. "I am John, under witness protection with Roger."

"Right, right. Well, come on in. We have lots to discuss."

Officer Leonard leads the way into the station from the backdoor. Roger has grasped Johns hand, looking both nervous and curious. Their touch is soothing for both of them. John has never been to a police station before in his life. He didn't think there would be many people like in the movies, but per his own words, this is a big case.

They pass several rooms and hallways, Roger is greeted by a number of people and Officer Leonard is a proven authority figure around here. 

Before they arrive at their destined room the boy from before, Oliver, returns with two cups of coffee, one for John and one for Roger. He smiles apologetically, but there is no time for verbalization. John appreciates the hot liquid running down his throat, warming his insides more than any apology from a snotty errand boy. 

With their coffees in their hands and Officer Leonard as their lead, they stop in front of a large grey door. 

John has let go of Roger's hand for now, but ready to take it back whenever he needs to. 

Officer Leonard is joined by another man, a younger but also experienced sunken faced man. He nods respectfully at Roger, but doesn't bother with introductions for John.

"Gentlemen, good morning. Glad you could come on such short notice."

Roger nods stiffly. "Didn't feel like much of a choice. I'm relying on my witness protection, then I ought to be a witness."

The man, John can guess he is the second top investigator on the case, Roger called Larry Jones, offers only a tight-lipped smile. "That is right indeed, yes."

"So I'll be identifying them? Make sure they are the right ones."

John doesn't like how the two officers make eye contact, before they both turn back to Roger. This is the fishy part. 

Officer Leonard pushes his hands into his pockets. He thinks about his words before he speaks. John doesn't like people who are too calculating, with their words and actions when it came to doing the right thing. 

Worry shoots into Roger's eyes. "D-did you get everyone? You did get everyone, right?"

The older man could not have bopped his head faster than he did. "We have successfully arrested all the key members, we believe. That has to be reconfirmed by you today." He assures with a fixed tone, his eyes are everywhere but Roger's eyes. Larry Jones rocks on his heels uncomfortably too. "There has been a small change of plans, based on the evidence we have now."

John doesn't like the sound of that, at all. "What is that?" He asks when Roger doesn't. 

Officer Leonard is at a loss for words, begrudgingly Larry Jones jumps in to explain. 

"Evidence on the person identified as Richard is scarce. We tried to build an individual case against him, but credible evidence is hard to find. This means we still have him for the organized crime case, belonging and functioning for the crew's drug-dealing scheme, it will still get him jail time. Documents on his parts in the prostitution section of the business has yet to be found in the records. This means we can only confidently charge him with drugs dealing. And because we are only charging for drug dealing, he might be able to post bail."

The words ring through John's head four times before he comes to terms with them. The police is not charging Richard for crimes unrelated to the drug dealing. This means he will get less jail time and will not be publically labelled as the rapist and abuser that he is. 

It takes the same amount of time for the information to seep into Roger's head. John can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"What about the forced prostitution? What about the assault? All the physical abuse-- the rape. I don't understand how you only figured that you needed records when there are victims. I can’t believe you only find out now." Roger's eyes flicker between the two officers widely, like he can't choose who to look at, who to beg. He steps closer to the two men and continues in a high frantic tone. "We talked about this, I can testify this, many of the girls can testify this. He raped me." He says out loud. The words cut like a knife through the tense air. Larry Jones flinches. "He raped me, people knew and they saw."

While Larry Jones' face has contorted into an uncomfortable scowl, Officer Leonard has kept his cool. 

"Roger, we mean no harm. We think it is terrible that he has led you down this path, but I have worked on many cases in my time. I cannot tell you how little chance girlfriends or spouses have in court, defending their rape allegations against their significant others. I don't mean to speak out of line, but for two homosexuals in a relationship, one of which is a prostitute, I assure you that there is little to no chance of a judge taking this case seriously. I am sorry, but it is the truth. Were you two together at the time?"

"Yes, well, I was sixteen. I didn't know that--"

"I am not the enemy here, I am just stating the exact things a lawyer will ask of you." Officer Leonard cuts in short. He shakes his head, as if he is tired explaining the same thing over and over again. John's teeth are on edge and he feels his blood boiling to the surface. "All your witnesses must be happy to stand by your side in this, but he will get a lawyer who will question their credibility. Were they possibly under the influence of any drugs during this time?"

Roger is at a loss for words. His wide-eyed panic reflects exactly that. "Perhaps."

Officer Leonard rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. He swallows thickly, echoing Rogers reply in a mumble. 

Not easily put off, Roger lifts up his chin to face the two men looming over him. 

"A-and forced prostitution? The girls can testify for that too-- clients can testify."

"Hard to proof." Larry Jones answers this time. "To proof that these consenting adults were not in fact consenting with the agreement, won't be easy. We can't risk or rest Richards case on that."

John opens his mouth to speak, his tongue is hot with flaming words he wants to spew, but Roger beats him to it, but more impressively. The now brunette clenches his fist before he slams his mug to pieces on the floor. He stomps, eyes burning with anger directed solely at the two officers. He points his finger right into their faces, jabbing them with a force that could take out one of their eyeballs. 

"You knew this might happen." He grits out. "You knew and you tricked me!"

"Keep your voice down." Officer Leonard hisses, but Roger is too upset to be silenced. The elderly man straightens his spine and looks down at Roger, like something that is far below him, far inferior. John finds it hard to stay quiet now. "This is not appropriate." 

"You knew there was a chance he would get out on bail. You knew this and you didn't tell me."

"We did not want you to jeopardize the case by being scared and pull out when the heat became too much. He won't be out forever, if he can post bail and pay it, it will just be until the trial. We have him on drug dealing, that will get him jail time, a lot of it. And in the courtroom during the Bull Crew case, we have a better chance at pleading the case of forced prostitution and-- assault of any sort. Maybe we can prove the prostitution is part of the business scheme and he used force or any sort of control to make them stay... But for the domestic violence and sexual assault? No. We can't push our luck on those things. You’d have to do that independently if you must. This wasn’t my decision, the whole department looked at the evidence we have found and what is possible when it comes to charges. Prostitution is hard to proof, and Richard has not confessed. We work with what we got."

"You tricked me!" Roger steps right up into Officer Leonards face. "I put my life on the line and you tricked me like a cheap fucking criminal. He will kill me when he's out on bail. He will kill me, and my flatmates and their families."

"Roger--"

John catches Rogers arm and pulls him away before the other two men can take note of the tears welling up in Roger's eyes.

He takes Roger away from them, pushes past a very confused Oliver and into a backroom he finds empty. Roger is one heaving breath away from a dry sob. He claws onto John for someone to hold onto, John wonders how he manages to guide Roger back when he himself has trouble feeling the ground under his feet or the oxygen in the room. 

Once they are alone, Roger buries his face into John's chest. 

"They promised. They promised I'd be safe. That they got them all."

John closes his arms around Rogers back, rocking him against him. "They are fucking bastards. I know."

"This isn't right. John, this is not right. He will post bail. He'll kill us. I don't want to die."

The case is highly sensitive, John realizes that too. Everything is dependent on eyewitness accounts from people who are criminalized under the law. Not very credible eyewitnesses. 

John understands the reasoning for the police not to prosecute, but then they should not have made Roger believe the would be sued for all three subjects, the drugs, the forced prostitution and the assaults.

It is a blow in the face that after months of Roger opening up about his deepest traumas with these strangers, will lead to nothing but a drugs charge on Richards part. 

And that is not even to speak of the rest. Have they got enough evidence for them? 

"I can't believe they will just let him go. I can't believe this."

"We won't let him go."

In the hallway appears officer Leonard, red in the face and pouring sweat everywhere sweat can roll. "We will try to appeal any bail after we charge him, he might have a chance he will get out on bail until the trial, yes, but you and your roommates are still guaranteed within the witness protection program until the trial is over and you are safe. There is no way he could get to you."

Roger pushes away from John's chest and takes a deep inhale, before he screams the walls into shaking. 

"You have no idea what people you are dealing with!"

"Mr Taylor," Larry Jones appears in the doorway too, he struggles to fit with both himself and officer Leonard taking so much space with their tough middles. "You need to calm down so you can identify the arrested convicts, we still need you to do that, after that we will do whatever we can to help you, but you need to put in the same effort for us."

His words are like the vile hisses of a snake. John grabs Rogers arms between his own, and forces Roger to look at him, in the eye. 

"If you don't want to see him, you won't have to," John assured him and gives his arms one tight squeeze that neither of them won't forget for a along time. "You don't have to." 

Leonard clears his throat behind him. "We must insist that you--"

John looks Roger right in the eye, forcing him to only focus on John. 

"You don't have to see him."

★☆★ __

_"Give me one example of a woman's good leadership. One."_

_"The Queen." Alan answers dryly. In reply, Frank mimics the sound of a negative buzz in a gameshow quiz._

_"Engnghh!" He exclaims. "Wrong. Barely any power at all. Give me one woman, it is all I ask. One example."_

_Eventually, Alan settles for a shrug, looking nonchalant despite his toss at his colleague. "There must have been some Viking women. Or Cleopatra."_

_"Magic witch pussy doesn't count." Frank counters with a huff— liquor spills from his glass when he swings his arm. "That is not leadership. That is sex appeal."_

_"I am sure there was some leadership too. She did rule a whole nation for a couple of decades, on her own."_

_"Advisors, magic, needing mighty men from Rome to safe her arse whenever anything inconvenient happened in her tiny little country."_

_These meetings used to be only business oriented. Now, they are nothing of the sorts. Gillian provides drinks and a small dinner for those highest ranking in the crew. They make it their own party, away from their wives, girlfriends and responsibilities. Upstairs Gillian has some girls waiting to get in later on, for entertainment purposes._

_He grows tired from watching the boring conversation, not as tired as Alan, apparently, who gets up even before Frank finishes his argument._

_No longer distracted by his subordinates, Gillian looks around the room, and between all the files, papers and men, he sees a young poorly dressed boy sitting alone in the far corner of the basement, looking too gloomy for a man that is working his way up within the Crew. He doesn't mingle well with the others, he doesn't know them, being there as Richards replacement._

_Richard couldn't make their monthly meeting, still cleaning his mess trying to find new girls to fill up the spaces of those dead or imprisoned._

_He approaches the boy with a glass of brandy and ice. He sits down in the free chair beside him and offers the drink wordlessly._

_"Sir," The boy straightens his back. "Thank you, sir."_

_Gillian clasps the young lads back, smiling at him. "No problem, saw you were quite through it, judging from that face you were pulling."_

_The handyman tries to shrug it off, but Gillian doesn't let him. "I know I'm the big boss," He smiles with only one side of his face when he looks at him intently. "But you can tell me kid, I am supposed to know how to make the job easier. Tell me what it is? And-- what's your name again?"_

_"Andrei, sir. I'm Andrei."_

_"Andrew..." Gillian repeats without adding the boys accent, just his own. It sounded better on his tongue. He continues to smile tightly. "I won't tell you what to do, but I recommend taking your time to talk to the boss and your colleagues here. Many people would beg for a conversation like this, company like this."_

_Andrei is a handsome young boy, he could model, Gillian thinks wryly, but even better is that he won't stick out in a crowd. He isn't the tallest and not so very skinny. He is muscles and flesh, no beard, or tattooed._

_He gives in, eventually, but that is after he finishes the contents of his glass._

_"It's the shooting that happened a few weeks ago, I still... I can't sleep. I can barely think when I imagine the girls getting hit, how many fell on the floor and the shooting and agony eas deafening. I hear it whenever I close my eyes. Just an endless loop of shooting. And I can't believe I'm the only one who's having sleepless nights over it."_

_"Sleepless nights..." Gillian rolls his eyes. "You should be proud of yourself. Those bullets were shot to cause fear. But you didn't hesitate. You drove to Richard immediately, giving him time to go into hiding in case those bastards were after him too. You saw the danger and your first instinct was to protect your boss, Andrew you must admire yourself like I admire you. You acted for the larger good, isn't that worth drinking for?"_

_Andrei eyes him nervously._

_Therefore Gillian takes his swig of alcohol with grace, he barely finishes it before someone rushes out to bring him another glass._

_It is a rare occasion to have the file storage space filled with so many people, bur with the rival gangs rising, Gillian considered it appropriate to throw a good party._

_Bread and games._

_"Good leadership, you see," Gillian starts, drawing Andrei's attention back to himself from his empty whiskey glass. "Has nothing to do with your gender, ethnicity or sexual orientation. It is a skill that moves people forward, whether that be fair, lawful or easy, no. But is Cleopatra not a good leader for sleeping with two high generals to keep them from taking over her land and letting foreigners rule what must be understood by an insider. What you did, driving the men in the car away from the scene, into the night so that nobody could see you and you could warn us about an attack, that was leadership."_

_Andrei blinks heavily, like he doesn't understand what his boss is saying, this being the first time speak one on one._

_"You are a proud part of the crew, Andrew. You brought us to safety before the police could enter the scene, you brought my workers to safety, so I must look out for you, because smart and loyal works. Smart and disloyal however--"_

_A small shifting groaning sound above ground silences everyone in the space. The sounds are equivalent to the large metal door opening._

_Which cannot be the case, because everyone he wanted to invite was already safely downstairs._

_More frightening is when moments later, there is a loud echoing knock on the door that leads to the basement they are in._

_Gillian feels all eyes in the room are on him. He lifts his arm in a gesture that silences them all into holding their breath. He doesn't know who it is, what it is, but it is always best not to jump to conclusions._

_Another knock comes, it echoes on the cold concrete walls, then comes a loud unexpected voice that pauses the beating of Gillians small, shriveled heart._

_"Open up," Yells the voice. "Police."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys!!!!! What are you thinking. We are heading to a closer closer climaxy moment. I feel like the last few chapters will all be kinda? Hm 🧐


	35. Of Finality and Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger has to identify the suspects for the police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I have nothing to say other than, this one I have been terribly excited to show you guys.
> 
> Also I have been getting significantly less comments, do let me know if you liked this sweethearts. Its still quite a lot of work to write these chapters 😭❤️

Roger, if given the choice, would prefer to never see anyone who ranked high in the Bull Crew, ever again. 

If not in orange jumpsuits with both hands tied behind their backs.

While laying in bed, tangled up in his boyfriends limbs, Roger would look up at the ceiling unable to find any sleep. In those moments he prepared himself to see Richard again during the inevitable trial, in the courtroom. 

But this, now, is too soon and too sudden. 

Now more than ever does Roger wish he could speed-dial Dominique and ask for her advice. 

The sudden weight that now rests across his back and shoulders is a heavy one to bear. The situation is incredibly sticky and he wonders what Dominique would make of it. Or Crystal.

Roger barely makes it to the room where Officer Larry Jones leads him to. Through the now familiar hallways of the police station. 

Not even John following right behind him helps lift the heavy sense of dread that tingles from the tips of his fingers to the end of his toes. His instincts fight against his body's compliance to the officers orders. 

"It will just be to identify those we arrested. They won't be able to see you, you will just have to note the name and their function within the crew, that way we can confirm if all the witness accounts align. Almost none of the arrested have given identification cards and we also couldn't find any during the flat raids." Larry Jones comments wryly as they march down to the end of the hall.

Roger wishes he wouldn't speak altogether. The low buzz of his voice lulls Rogers head into a faraway state while he struggles to stay fixed in the present.

Like always John instantly notices the absent air in his posture. 

"So he won't have to speak to any of them?" John puts his hand on Rogers lower back, pulling him right back into reality. He is semi-out of breath from how fast they are walking. Roger had not even noticed that he had set that pace, Officer Larry Jones also has trouble keeping up.

Now that he notices he can feel the burn in his upper thighs and slows down. 

His hurry musn't be mistaken for eagerness. 

His squeaky converse drag over the hardened floors, he nearly stumbles over his own feet when they come to a sudden halt. 

Larry Jones stops by an unfamiliar grey door, this one tucked all the way into the back. He turns around to face the two visitors, seemingly mournful at this being part of his duties as an officer. 

"You don't have to speak to anyone." He cranes his neck down to assure them in a hushed tone. "We just need to confirm who is who, for those unwilling to give ID or we didn't find any of. It will just require looking, nodding and telling us what you know. It couldn't be simpler, I promise."

John is glaring at the older man, Larry Jones has at least the correct instinct to look at Roger and Roger only. 

"You think you could do that?" He asks Roger specifically. 

It is a rhetoric question and one Roger doesn't even get a chance to answer when Officer Leonard pushes the door open from the inside, nearly knocking Larry Jones off his feet.

He invites them all in by stating simply that ' _they are ready_ ', he and Larry Jones look at Roger expectantly. 

He has little choice but to comply. 

He is reliant on these men for their protection, especially because of the position they have put him in. Roger has testified against the Crew on public record. At first only Richard was looking for Roger, but now he has reason to take revenge of a much larger scale. 

Roger can't do anything but apply the old breathing technique Dominique had drilled into his brain and to push the betrayal of the police to the back of his head. 

When he says nothing for a long time, the two elderly men assume it's a yes. 

"Well come on in. They will be behind the glass, no worry, it is a one-way mirror. For us a window, for them a mirror."

Roger is ushered into the unfamiliar, but dark room. The major source of light comes from behind the glass in the connected room that is white, tiled and for good reason brightly lit. 

His feet carry him inside on auto-pilot, but he still turns around to make sure John is still with him. 

When their eyes meet, his boyfriend sends him a tight smile. It doesn't reach his eyes.

Officer Leonard enters and Larry Jones closes the door behind them. Now they are all in the dark room facing the show room behind the glass. John is instructed to stand some paces behind Roger and is asked not to interfere in the process. This becomes increasingly more uncomfortable for Roger. He is asked to stand in front of the glass, facing forward and not verbally or physically communicate with John during the identification. 

The glass is too close to his face to catch even a glance of John or the two policemen in the reflection. 

When Roger remembers to breathe-- which is too late, his shriveled lungs tighten his already panic flooded chest. He forces himself to suck two lungfuls of air in, but that appears to be all the oxygen there is in the room. The measly amount is just enough to not let him die on the spot, but an sufficient amount to torture Roger into a slow build up panic attack. 

His breath fogs the glass. Hiding his view temporarily before that too fades.

He wishes John was next to him, rather than what felt like a thousand miles away. For each mile Rogers heart races to catch up. 

The room opposite to him stays empty. 

The suspense is unbearable. Why bring him here when they weren't ready? 

Every inch of his skin prickles where clothing touches the fine hairs over his body. His eyes itch with emotions. 

He can't cry, no matter how close he is to a rapid state. 

Dominique would tell him to take more breaths, but Roger isn't sure about what she would say if he told her there is none left in the room. No air, no oxygen and no chance for him to regain any sort of control back in this situation, even when he thought he was the one in control when he went to the police. They played him like a fiddle. Got all the information out of him, and even now wringing him out like the ragdoll he is. Only for Richard to possibly post bail, because they are too afraid to charge him for anything but the drug crimes. 

"Will they hurry up?"

He is surprised by his own tone of voice. He is also surprised the officers understood the semi-growl sound that were supposed to firm words. 

There is scrambling and rustling of paper. "Yes, yes of course. They'll send the first one in at any moment."

Roger half expects the universe to fuck with him and the first person to identify to be Richard, he holds his breath, until he sees the door swing open behind the glass and a man, red in the face and grease in the hair be directed by an officer in uniform to stand in front of the glass, facing Roger in the same position. Only this man is handcuffed and dressed in blue and grey, almost a casual lounge outfit rather than the Hollywood orange Roger had half expected. 

He recognizes that limp in his stride and unwashed cloth over the eye anywhere. 

"Larry."

The officer behind him hums, presumably Larry Jones. "What else?" Roger resists rolling his eyes. "Larry, one-eyed Larry. Drug dealing and prostitution."

"Oh— right."

Frantic scribbling and humming. The rustling paper barely gives Roger the chance to think when he looks at his old colleague or abuser, however your perspective. His rotten teeth and oily hair have only gotten worse since the last time Roger saw him. Which in retrospect is a long time ago, before Christmas 1970. 

They have passed the summer of 1971 now. Roger could have done without ever seeing the thick open pores in his face, or the sullen defeat in his eyes. The prison uniform suits him. Roger hopes his body will continue to rot until that too decays into nothing. 

He doesn't know how long he glares at one-eyed Larry for, before the same officer as before removes him from the room by his arm. Roger has looked him in the eye and remembered everything that had been done to him. He tries not to let it get to him, but it does. Seeing him get dragged away settles a deep sinking feeling of satisfaction in Roger's stomach. 

"Alright, that's good. Next one will come right after." Officer Leonard adds gruffly.

Just a couple of minutes ago, Roger was on the verge of a panic attack, but now he is sick at how much relief he feels, knowing he is standing on this side of the glass while under the laws of the country, he should have been there too.

When they pull out Andrei next, who has grown a stubble into a scruff and lost more weight than just a couple of days in jail could warrant for, Roger still doesn't feel any sympathy. He thinks of Imogen and all the weeks Roger had spend worried about Andrei's blue car outside of John, Brian and Freddie's house. It may feel like a lifetime ago, but it certainly was not. He thinks about the nights where he didn't make enough money and Andrei would write it off in exchange for sexual favors. Roger grows tired, thinking about how easy it went back then. 

"Andrei." He says before the officer has even put Andrei onto the right spot. "Prostitution and administration, some drug dealing." 

"Which branch?" 

"Richards." Roger continues without missing beat. "He drove from the crime scene during the Menom Road shooting. He usually manages the prostitutes and cashflow."

Andrei's eyes have grown dull and grey over time. 

Rogers fingers curl into fists by his sides. If there wasn't glass separating the two of them, he would have jumped across the separation and slapped him across the face, ask him if it was worth it. 

Knowing Andrei, he wouldn't agree with the decision, but still stand behind it. That is what the crew does to people and people do for the crew. 

Roger remembers having no moral compass either when working for the crew. He didn't care much about his or others' lives. When they defeated a rival gang, Roger celebrated like everyone else no matter what the death toll was. It was part of the world. When someone from the crew was harmed, arrested or murdered, they mourned. 

Roger doesn't feel no sympathy towards Andrei and the death in his eyes that will continue to spread through the rest of his body given time. 

If Roger is supposed to feel bad for him and all the other crew members who were pressured to react the way they did during the shooting, running away and warning the higher ups instead of helping the girls, Roger wouldn't have enough capacity to also mourn the true victims of the organized crime. Those dead, like his mother and Imogen. Those suffering, like Janice and Pearl. 

Andrei is dragged back into the other room. Rogers shoulders sag with a sound exhale. 

"Are you alright?" John asks.

His tone sounds very much on edge. It makes the corner of Rogers mouth twitch with sympathy. He wouldn't want to be in John's shoes now. "I am as alright as I could be."

That quiets him down again. Roger closes his eyes to rest them from the brightness from the white room and its fluorescent lights. 

Behind him is the rustling of paper. The shifting of clothes and shoes on the floor. Someone clears their throat and Roger takes it as his cue to open his prickling eyes. 

Caught off guard by the rush of air that leaves his lungs, Roger takes two steps away from the glass. 

He barely manages to stay on his feet instead of tumbling to the floor. He had not expected to find Richards face so close to his. He panics, forgetting about the glass, forgetting about all logic when he sees the faint shadow of a grin on Richards gritty face.

John catches Roger, which makes him jump in panic before he sees who is touching him. 

His heart is rapidly beating against his ribcage and every hair on his body is erect. 

Roger's eyes bounce rapidly between the glass and John. The police officers are clearly unamused and ready to step in, but Roger holds his hand up before they can.

"It's a one-way mirror, right?" He asks quickly, in a tone that's not far cry from insanity. He glances between the two older officers. "He can't see me?" 

Officer Leonard breathes in a lungful of air before he replies. He stands his ground and squares his shoulders before he speaks. 

"He can't see you, he can't hear you. He does not know who is identifying him."

"He doesn't know." John has a tight, powerful grip on Roger's arm. Roger is assured that if he passes out now, John will be there to catch him before he goes under. The calm darkness in his eyes is the polar opposite to the cool murder Roger read in Richards. He takes a deep breath when he looks right at John, when he can gaze up into his calm eyes. He mimics Officer Leonard by straightening his back and rubbing his face with his knuckles. "He does not know it is you, he does not know you are here. He has no power over you."

Rogers airway closes up as if Richard's hand is wrapped around it. Roger could laugh in John's face, because even when Richard doesn't know Roger is there, he controls everything. 

"Can you stand on your own?"

"Yes." Roger nods rapidly. He can and he does. He puts his two heels flat on the floor and blinks down at them, he is easily distracted by the happy bounce of light that comes from his glittering converse. He blindly finds Johns hand on his arm and gives him a squeeze. "Yes."

Then he pries Johns hands away to stroll over to the glass once more.

He is one step further away from the window, but it is him. And Roger prides himself for tipping his chin and facing exactly what he has been avoiding half a year. 

Richard, behind the glass, with skin paler than Draculas, his hair uncombed and his body clad in the prison uniform.

For now... A little voice mocks him.

_For now._

"Who is this?" Officer Leonard prompts eventually, when Roger suspects he becomes a little creeped out at Richards grin too. 

Roger peers right inti his eyes. Like one can do with a photo when the other person is not in the room, examine and analyse what you see in the picture. Thick bushy eyebrows, dead cold eyes and delicately turned lip, bitten raw and bloody. He looks like the criminal he is, Roger thinks righteously. Any judge with half a brain wouldn't give this maniac bail. It would be cruel to let someone so feral and off the hinge be trusted with freedom, even if it is only until trial. 

"This is Richard." Roger finds his lips moving without his brain's permission. "He manages prostitutes and drugs. He introduced me to heroin when I was sixteen, after telling me my mother was killed by a rival gang."

It is different telling Richard exactly what he did right to his face. By now Roger has told his story to many different people trying to get them on his side. To have him staring back blankly is infuriating and invalidating. Roger never in his life wants to feel invalidated again. 

Tears well up in his eyes and he has to talk with a lump in his throat now. 

"He promised me he would take revenge for her, but he never did. I never even got a funeral, because he did it. He killed her so he could force me to be with him. Or be homeless. Then when I had nothing left but him, came the drugs and the prostitution. _You do this and I can let you stay, else you will be on the streets._ Did I have a choice?" Roger sniffles and wraps his arms around his own middle to keep himself warm and feel protection from the blank glare Richard sports on his long, worn face. "I didn't have a choice. When I said no, he'd force me. With others or for himself. He is Richard and he is a rapist, murderer and scumbag."

When his gaze grows weary and Richard blurs away behind a wall of tears, Roger pries his eyes from his ex and they fall on the physically shifting police officers standing behind him. 

If Roger has made them uncomfortable, his mission is accomplished. "But you think it's enough to get him on drugs. Just drugs."

"And if we find evidence or multiple testimony accounts, also leading a branch in an organized crime organization." Officer Leonard fills in. He scribbles the last bits down in his notebook. When he feels Rogers eyes still on himself, he purses his lips and lowers the notebook to acknowledge him. "What?"

"You lied to me."

This was apparently not the right thing to say. Officer Leonards shoulders sag. And Larry Jones groans.

Roger shouldn't feel like a nuisance to them. Not after everything he has done. "This is not fair. I was a child. The law says he can't do that to me, that's sexual assault." 

"Let me explain this to you how it really is." Larry Jones loses his patience and grits his teeth. As if he had told Roger this twenty times before. He reminds him of his father when he steps up close and jabs his finger at Roger. "If you want to charge Richard with sexual assault, you are openly admitting to the court both buggery and gross indecency. From what you have told me and the others, about drugs, multiple partners at once and prostitution, this does not play out well for you."

"I have immunity." Roger yells back. "I have immunity! I could tell you everything because I have immunity for my part in this."

"Roger. We needed your information for organized crime, in all honesty, we can't do anything about your sexual assault without having the court discuss your part in this. I am not saying I blame you, but you took part in this. You cannot come here and demand we charge everyone. Your previous accounts describe non-procreative sex in the presence of others. Sometimes with multiple others. We have to be taken serious here, Roger. We cannot be taken serious and bring that up in the case alongside organized crime. Someone needed to tell you, that we are glad you gave all the information we needed, but we can't use it all to build our case."

The words sting.

Roger doesn't cry. He doesn't let himself, but the words sting. "The age of consent is 21. There wasn't consent and I wasn't off age."

"You were a prostitute." Officer Leonard retorts.

This time John is the one who is seething. He steps up close and barks, "That's enough." 

"No! You need to hear this. You were a prostitute. Like all the other prostitutes. You cannot claim rape while making money off of the sex. That's called being a prostitute. It's called being part of organized crime." He shoulders John out of the way and he leans in to tell Roger, up close, "You are a criminal. You are a heroin addict. You are a homosexual. You are a prostitute. You are a criminal. And so bloody lucky you had information to give us, because otherwise you would be the one behind bars like the rest of your friends. You want us to charge Richard with sexual assault, but not you for gross indecency. That is not a case I will be starting on. We drop even the idea of Richards sexual assault case." 

As though his body had shrunk to another ten centimeters tall, Rogers teeth are chattering when he speaks up for himself again. 

"I want you to charge _all_ of them. None of it was consensual. I didn't want any of this."

"And we sympathize with your tragic case, you wouldn't be the first one to get corrupted, but the time for demands is over, Roger. The trial is coming and we have to focus on the battles we picked to fight."

Officer Leonard flips his notebook and without looking up asks, 

"Anything else?"

"I need to talk to him."

The words have barely left Rogers mouth when he realizes himself what he just said.

John breaks the invisible barrier and steps into Rogers direction almost like he was hit by lightning on the previous spot. He reaches for Roger, grasping at his arm.

Their eyes meet and Roger has never seen this expression on Johns young face. Terribly young, bewildered and horrified all at once.

"What are you doing? Roger. Think about what you are doing."

Roger shakes his head, he _knows_ what he is doing. 

John gives his arm a tug that resembles a final warning given by a worn-down mother. "Yes you do, you need to think. What kind of good can come out of that— No don't look away. Tell me."

"I don't know." The grip on his arm grows painful. He isn't sure what John is afraid of, but he isn't angry, or sad. His desperation reads as fright and Roger can't quite figure him out. And before he can add more, Richard is already being taken away by the officer behind the glass. "I haven't spoken to him in over half a year. I have questions."

"Nothing he can say could make you feel better. Roger, don't give him a chance to see you again, to keep controlling you like this."

John curses when Roger yanks his arm free. The room is completely dark and he nearly stumbles into the two officers in his blindness. They are baffled by the exchange, but by far unamused. 

"I need to talk to him."

"No." Officer Leonard lifts a hand in dismission. Roger stops dead in tracks. He had not realized how fast his heart was beating until now that he is forced to the second standstill. "We have several more people we want you to identify."

"Leon," Larry jones clears his throat. He moves his hand over his lips hoping only his colleague would hear what he has to say, but Roger picks up every word. "Let the boy see him."

"Why would we—"

"We're not charging him for assault, the least we could do." He hisses from the corner of his mouth.

Roger looks expectedly at Officer Leonard, who seems to have the final word around here. 

He also feels Johns glaring presence close behind him, he does not dare to turn around and face him. He might scramble back and change his mind if he does. This feels like a once in a lifetime opportunity. An opportunity for Roger to sit down with Richard, when their power is not unbalanced as how it was before. When Roger can walk away when he wants and Richard will be visibly restrained. 

If Richard gets bail and tries to kill Roger, he might never get the opportunity.

Officer Leonard rubs at his eyes with the back of his palm. The retirement age is catching up on him fast. He looks like a man in sight of the marathon finish line. 

"You will come back to identify the rest afterwards." He tells Roger, and then tells Larry Jones, "Clear out the interrogation room. They can talk there, but Roger, there will be an officer in the room with you and we can determine when the conversation is over. Got it?"

Roger bops his head in fast agreement. "Certainly."

The old officer exhales through his nostrils and moves out of the door to stop the officer from bringing in the next witness and arrange for Richard to come to the interrogation room. He murmurs something under his breath, but Roger doesn't catch it.

Larry Jones follows Officer Leonard out the room. Roger's feet follow on auto-pilot, but once again he is held back by John. 

His expression has hardened somewhat, like he has found his mask of composure to shield himself once more. 

Roger knows what he is about to say, but he still lets John speak the words out loud. "This is a terrible idea." He clenches his eyes shut and he shakes his head. His jaw is locked with frustration as he tightens the hold on Roger's arm. "You know this is a terrible idea."

"If you could speak to the one person represented everything that fucked you up in life, would you not take that opportunity?"

"What is there to say, Rog?" John pleas with him. "What could he say that would make any of this different? Don't do this. I beg of you, for your own sake, don't do this."

If Roger could, he would have taken this opportunity to point out how young John really is, but he thinks that would just come off as condescending if he did. But sometimes Roger can't help but feel like he has lived over three lifetimes in his short lifespan. A day can feel like a week and a month can feel like a year in his world. When you have lived three lifetimes of torture, your perception changes and moving on is not a matter of forgetting, because the past has built who you are today.

Roger cannot simply forget in order to become whole. He needs closure. 

★☆★

Richard doesn't look quite so threatening under this single light above the table. 

Roger eyes him warily when he enters the room alone, like one would calculate the next move of a rapid dog. He thinks Richard might lash out or strike at the next given opportunity. Roger cranes his neck before he sits down, making sure he sees that Richard's hands cuffed behind his back on his chair.

Then when he sits down, Roger feels his heart beating in his throat. 

The sensation of blood rushing to his head is strikingly overwhelming. He becomes hot and flustered under the predators' heavy gaze. Richard looks like he has not slept in weeks, the bags under his eyes are hollow and black patches. When they used to be together, Roger remembers tracing the lines in Richard's face in the darkness of Richards bedroom. He remembers trying to memorize every line, in case he'd completely lose his sight one day, and then could still recognize the structure of Richard's face. 

Richard always laughed when he did that. 

Roger's fingertips feel too rough on the wooden table between them, like any drag could cause a splinter.

It is ironic to meet him here. 

This is the same room where Roger was first interviewed when he came to the police to make a statement. It feels like yesterday, though it was over four months ago.

Roger is, despite requesting this meeting himself, at a loss for words. He keeps looking at Richards, feeling his eyes on him, the short controlled breaths from his nose. He smells the rotten scent on his clothes that aren't his own. 

The unknown police officer stands in the corner of the room keeping a careful eye on the two. It reassures Roger to see him high strung and tense, watching for Richard to make a mistake. 

It only takes for Roger to open his mouth to speak, before a sinister smirk curls at the corners of Richards's broken lips. 

"I thought I'd never see you alive again."

A foul smell comes from his mouth. Roger restrains himself from covering his nose. 

There is no right way to reply, Roger closes his mouth when he does not know what to say. He can't remember if he had a plan in the first place when it came to this meeting. He deems that maybe this was a bad idea after all. 

Roger presses his lips into a tight line. He reminds himself of Richards helpless position now. 

He wonders if Richard knows he will be able to post bail. 

Under this light Richards mortality is undeniable. Before, in what was Rogers previous life, Richard was untouchable. An almost godlike figure in his life, the centre of his universe and the motivation behind his work. 

Richard was never worn, vulnerable or weak. 

Under the single bulb above the table, Richard suddenly looks his age. All those sleepless nights have caught up on him, but this time the infrastructure of the gang does not exist to catch him. 

Richard leans back into his chair, his shoulders are at an uncomfortable angle with how his hands are bound behind his back. He rolls his shoulders, trying to find some relief, the tension on his temple tells Roger he does not find it. 

"You're not smart for showing your face here." The corner of his mouth is still quirked up, but now only in disgust. "You don't look like yourself."

He lets Richard rattle on. He feels a tight armour around his heart, it clenches around the organ with every venomous word Richard spits out. 

"I liked your hair before, this isn't—" He huffs. "You have gained weight. I can't believe it takes such little time for someone to get fat and ugly. You're repulsive to look at. You are nothing now, you know that right?"

He speaks in a low tone, a calculated evil tone that carries across the room. Roger has goosebumps from his legs all the way to his cheeks. Every inch of his skin prickles with the memories of the voice. 

"You should not have come here." Richard rocks forward in his chair, restlessly. "I thought you were taken from me against your will, but I should have known better... You tried to go cold turkey and ran away from me to some homeless shelter. You wanted that over wanting me. You should not have shown your face, you traitorous snake. You thought tattooing over your brandmark would make it disappear? I know it's there, and you know it's there." Roger wordlessly rolls down his sleeve to hide the scar. He knows this will only satisfy Richard more, but the taunting gets to him. "You turned us in, you rat. You are a rat. A disgusting, ungrateful bag of shit. Biting the hand that fed you, kept you clothed and warm for years. You are nothing, you are less than nothing. There are no words to describe how fucking worthless you are." Richard pulls his face in. The way someone would react to lime or other overwhelming sour flavours. He shifts his arms, rolls his shoulders, tests his mobility which appears to be near nothing. "It's your fault _they_ are in jail."

Roger shook his head.

Richard chuckles at the reaction he has lured out. "No? Really? You think that during the raids on our buildings, they did not arrest the girls who escaped the shooting? Everyone who happened to be home during those hours? Your friends? It is all your fault, Roger. They are serving time because of you. You deserve to know what you did. You did that."

When Roger drops his gaze to the tabletop, Richard loses his patience. He stomps his foot onto the floor, hard and concrete rattling. 

It jumps Roger into straightening his back and lowering his eyes into his lap. He catches himself crumbling back into submission when Richard barks a laugh ar him. 

"You are nothing, and yet you have destroyed the lives of many who were just trying to survive. Turned them in, just like that. You are so fucking selfish Roger. Really? Are their lives less valuable than yours? Tell me. I want to hear you say it, I want you to admit it."

Hot embarrassment washes over Roger's face once again in boiling waves. He grips the tabletop with his fingers. Over Richard's shoulder, he can see the policeman shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide between interfering or not. 

Roger bites the inside of his cheek, until the flesh is tender and bitten raw. 

His words come out in a fast, unhappy flurry. "You forced us into prostitution. You do nothing when we are assaulted— you allowed people to assault us. Everything is about money. We got no rights to nutritious food, adequate heating during the winters, no medication, no personal hygiene, no way out. it was no life, it was a game of profit for you, you helped nobody but yourself, by giving us only the bare minimum to survive a miserable life filled with rape, assault and shame. I have nearly died under your care if it weren't for others. You don't care."

Richard leans over the table to hiss into his face. "After taking care of you for years? I don't care?"

"You don't."

"If I don't care you're in for a trip cowboy, I am the only one who has ever cared for you. Who was there when you had nobody else?"

Roger clenches his jaw. Rage coils in his underbelly and he narrows his eyes. "Who was the reason why there was nobody in my life? Who took me out of school? Who made me a prostitute? Who made me a heroin addict?"

"You did." Richard says strictly. "That was your decision. Not mine."

"Why did you kill her?" He blinks away the flood of tears that bring him to the edge of his seat. He doesn't care that he cries, he has done much more embarrassing things in front of Richard. Every muscle in his body strains with tension. " _Tell me_. Why did you kill my mother?"

"I didn't." 

★☆★ __

_The light that comes flooding into the basement is both blinding and terrifying. The door cannot be opened from the inside, which always meant that when the door opened, an intruder was coming in._

_Winnifred squints into the light shining directly into their sleeping quarters, which is a room of lumpy pillows and old clothes sown into blankets against the cold._

_Her first instinct is to grab for Clare and pull her tight against her. She does not recognize the person holding the flashlight, but it is four in the morning, and everything out of the ordinary routine, is something to be cautious of._

_An unfamiliar, but stern voice booms through the echoing room._

_"Everyone hands in the air! Hands up where we can see them, stay on the floor."_

_Her fingers, worn with age and manual labor, thread through her daughters fine blond hair to wake her up in the calmest fashion she can under these circumstances._

_Those around her are waking up too._

_An odd calm has fallen over her, while the other women are shaking, some crying and sobbing in uncertainty. Winnifred shushes Clare when she wakes up with a startle at another shout from above, followed by more blinding light._

_A man, dressed in an all-black armored suit lowers himself into the sleeping pit. Two others are gazing down their hole pointing guns at them._

_Winnifred shushes Clare, disobeying the repeated orders to raise her arms._

_The officer that had come down into the pit has created empty space around himself as all the women have huddled as far away from him as they can, clinging to the walls and each other. He looks around himself, his face is hidden with a mask, but Winnifred assumes something about this situation must seem like something he had not expected._

_Eventually, as he looks around himself with his flashlight, his gaze also falls on Winnifred._

_He pauses on her and Clare. Clare trembles and begins to cry, earnestly._

_It is a combination of the shock and the sleep wearing off, but also the unknown. Winnifred tugs her under her skin and rocks her, whispering in her ear that everything would be alright._

_Her disobedience to the mans orders is not noted._

_Next thing they know the whole pit is flooded with the same uniformed men and one by one, the women are pushed to their feet and pulled out of the pit with shivering limbs and barely any flesh to their bones. Their state is a poor one to look at. Winnifred knows she looks nothing better in her current dress, hanging off her frame like a boys t-shirt. Like the t-shirt she had kept Clair warm with during their cold nights in the pit._

_They are brought to daylight by the uniformed men. Clare clings to her harder than she has ever clung._

_Once above the ground and on the first floor of the building, Winnifred finds herself in an empty room, that is usually filled with packages upon packages of powdered heroin and cocaine._

_Their equipment is being torn apart, samples are being taken from different packages of heroin and the powdered milk and flour they mix it with here. Every inch of the place is occupied with people looking around, making notes, confiscating things._

_Two men Winnifred recognizes as the guards at duty for Alan during weeknights, are pushes to the ground with their arms cuffed behind them._

_Winnifred barely dares to follow the commands she gets from the officers, knowing that as packagers of the heroin, they will also be facing consequences. She and the other women are ushered outside of the building and at the first lungful of the fresh early morning air, hot tears well up in Winnifred's eyes. She cannot remember the last time she was allowed to go outside. Even when she went into labour with Clare was she forced to have the baby in the pit with no medical assistance._

_Like magic, Clares crying ceases._

_On her bare feet, Winnifred walks out into the lot in front of the warehouse. The wind catches her hair and sends cold shivers down her spine. She hears the seagulls and hears the crashing waves of the ocean nearby, which used to be a faint sound when she was inside._

_At the first wail of an ambulance, Winnifred's legs collapse beneath her. She holds onto Clare without dropping her, but that is all she manages before breaking down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀 
> 
> I take questions.


	36. Of Thunder and Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new investigation is started by the police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dkfkfkdksks alright alright so. Hectic week. I’m moving to the UK again, friday is my birthday, University is starting and I have a lot of writing to do. 
> 
> That being said, this was an amazing chapter to write and I sincerely thank you all for still indulging me after so much time.

"I don't understand how this isn't written down somewhere." Roger hears the faint murmur of John's voice in the background. He speaks in a controlled but hissing whisper to the agents, who are scurrying around themselves and the tables set up for the Menom Road investigation months ago. "Don't you have a list somewhere—?"

"I wish it was that simple. I wish we were that organized, but I am afraid we aren't."

Larry Jones fills in with a spiteful but clipped tone. 

"During the raids many people were found, taken into custody or brought to the hospital. Like with the Menom Road shooting, close to none carried ID or were willing to give up personal details. Can you imagine it is hard to get organized that way?"

"I certainly do, but an 'oops, sorry' won't cut, you see," John lowers his voice, but Roger can still pick up on it even from a distance away. "We need to know if his mother is really alive."

"I understand, but—"

"I don't think you do if 'but' is still in your answer. We thought his mother was dead. We need information, you are the police, you have cleaned out those places, where else could we go?"

Larry Jones exhales soundly through his nose.

When the conversation dissolves there, Roger goes back to the task at hand. He is flipping through reports made by the squad command team that had raided the Bull Crews operational buildings. Many mention victims, prostitutes, male and female captors, drug dealers, some dead people. Most were brought directly to the hospital, if the working girls were not already wounded, many were severely underweight or weak. In no condition to be brought to jail. Those people have not been formally written into the filing system. 

Officer Leonard is rapidly talking to people, barking orders when he needs to. Many are skimming the enjailed for a Winnifred, a blonde woman in her middle ages. 

"There is no way of making Richard say more about where he send her?" John asks again. Roger pauses his eyes from dragging across the paper to listen intently. 

Larry Jones huffs gravely. "This is not Alcatraz. We can hardly torture prisoners into giving up information, especially not before they are properly charged." 

"There must be something you can do. You must have a system to keep track of those in the hospitals, or pictures of the found dead at the scenes. You can't be that incompetent, seriously."

"I will not tolerate that a regular citizen comes into my station to belittle our way of—"

"Will you quit bickering right now." Roger looks up at the sudden outburst from Officer Leonard, he is glaring directly at Larry Jones and John over Roger's shoulder. 

Roger cranes his neck to take a look at his boyfriend and to his surprise, John is flustered up red with anger in his face. He pushes his bangs out of his eyes with a long, tired exhale. Roger's heart is racing still from his meeting with Richard. He knows he scared the shit out of John when he came rushing out of the interrogation room with the little information Richard was willing to give up, which was only that she was alive. When Roger asked where she was and what he had done to her, Richard has kept his lips perfectly locked.

_His mother is alive. He never killed his mother._

A smile threatens to tug at the corner of his mouth, because he doesn't know what else to feel besides more helpless than ever and overjoyed.

John sees the conflict playing out on his face. He leaves Larry Jones' side to join Roger by the investigation table. He grabs a file from the stack that Roger has not gone through yet. He stands flush against Rogers side, showing his intimate support without muttering a word or giving their relationship away to anyone whose business it wasn't. 

With his heart hammering against his aching ribs, it is hard to concentrate on the words on the paper. Roger is sweating profoundly even though the station is infamously freezing cold, making his glasses more prone to sliding off his nose constantly. 

"I won't ask if you found anything."

"I didn't." Roger confirms wearily. He glances sideways at John and chews on the inside of his cheek until John notices he is staring and tears his eyes away from the file he is studying. "What if he lied to me."

"You know him better than I do." John whispers in vain of privacy they don't have, surrounded by eavesdropping curious policemen. "Did he lie?"

"I don't think so, no. But there isn't a trace of her." Roger says mournfully. 

It is almost like she has died a second time again, if Richard lied to play with Rogers mind one last time. His words had seemed earnest, despite the insanity Roger saw beyond the mask of anger he was wearing throughout the conversation. 

John stops reading to turn his full attention to Roger. He puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a long, loving look. "We have not looked at even half the evidence yet. Don't give up now."

Roger finds it hard to hold on, but the hand squeezing down his muscles is grounding him where they both lean against the edge of the table. Roger wishes he could drop himself in John's arms and hold him tight for a long moment. If he was not so desperate to find his mother today, he would have asked John to accompany him outside or to the bathroom. 

They don't have such luxuries now, but Roger's eyes linger on John brown eyes and on the golden specks inside, before he turns back to his file and tries to read through his tear blurred vision with difficulty. 

John picks his up again too, side by side they continue the search for any clue of Rogers mothers whereabouts.

They read through their stack, finding nothing, and then get to the next stack of files and reports with possible information about victims of the raids. Oliver brings them a coffee and sandwich around lunch. Roger doesn't manage to chew even a bite past the first bit. He thinks of his mother and whenever she might be. Luckily, John is holding the trashcan under Roger's chin before Roger himself caught onto the overwhelming nausea and threw up. 

Their presence in the station is beyond unwanted. They are repeatedly asked to go back home to rest, told they will get an immediate call if someone found something about his mother, but Roger refuses to budge. Despite the numb fingers, exhaustion, sweat-soaked clothes and hunger, he refuses to budge.

John announces he should phone the country house when nighttime falls and there is still no information about Winnifred. 

He leaves Roger be at the investigation table and wobbles to the phone in Larry Jones' office. 

When Roger is alone for that split second, Officer Leonard seizes the opportunity to approach him. Before he even makes it to Rogers side, Roger braces himself to stand his ground by clenching his jaw and balancing his weight. 

"No." He says. 

Officer Leonard rubs his face with his palm. Roger doesn't care that the old man feels like he is dealing with a toddlers tantrum. This is too important. 

"I can promise you, with the deepest sincerity, that we have the best people contacting the prisons now, and reporting on the victims in separate hospitals. You and I have both read every single file in this complex, we both know there is nothing we can do but wait until we hear back from the prisons and the hospitals. Go home," He pleads with Roger, not for the first time today. "Please. This was a taxing enough day for you."

"I need to be close by when you find out. I don't mind staying, I really don't."

Roger's voice has gone practically unused today. His throat feels raw and dry when the words scrape past it. 

Officer Leonard knows he is fighting a lost battle. 

He makes some eye-signal with someone behind Roger's back. When Roger turns around he finds Oliver rolling out the comfortable chair from Larry Jones' office into the common investigation room. 

Oliver wears a careful smile as he parks the chair behind Roger, and then gestures for him to sit down. 

Roger looks at Officer Leonard for permission with a raised eyebrow.

The older man sighs. "I and Larry Jones will be off duty in some minutes. If you're staying, you better get comfortable. We don't know how long this will take." 

Oliver hands Roger a cup of tea before he has properly settled down. He gives him a grateful nod, using the cup to warm his frozen palms while he wriggles himself into a comfortable position in the leather chair. 

Officer Leonard is whisked away by the receptionist asking for his notes on a matter. 

It is impossible to find rest in the bustling environment. Three other policemen who remain for the nightshift continue to re-read and work through the reports and files, looking for a blonde woman, blue eyes and middle-aged. Roger doubts that she worked as a prostitute during this time, or at least not one that was allowed to take clients on the street. He knows that if she had gotten the opportunity to get away, she would have come for him, but Roger doesn't know many jobs within the Bull Crew that make profit, but keeps the workers captive to the extent that she could not escape for over five years of imprisonment. 

Unless she escaped imprisonment. 

Or didn't come for Roger when Richard let her go. 

Or she is truly dead after all. 

"Roger." Roger jumps when John drops to his knees in front of him, making himself smaller than Roger and looking up at him with a formal smile. It takes a moment for Rogers heart rate to return to normal again, John notices his shifting discomfort, and apologizes with his eyes alone. "Rog, I think you should go home." 

"No. I'm not going home." 

John nods fiercely. As if he knew what it was like to stand in Roger's shoes. "I know, but you can't be useful here right now. If you come home with me, we can get you freshened up before we bring you straight back here, but a little more put-together."

His advice comes from an honest, earnest place. But irritation still sets in when Roger has to explain this again to the one person he hoped he wouldn't have to.

"I cannot go home. Richard told me my mother is not dead. I need to get to the bottom of this. I don't care if I smell bad, I don't care if I'm freezing to death, I don't care if I'm starving. I need to know. Do you see that?"

Roger has leaned closer to John and towers over him from above. 

John is prone to standing up against Rogers bullshit, which is why Roger loves him, but today he loves him more for tightening his lips and giving one final, understanding nod. 

Roger drops himself back against the chair. He is dizzy with nausea and shivering with adrenaline and nerves. 

Everything about this situation makes his stomach twist and his head pound with around the clock aches. If he could just go home, take a shower and switch this feeling off, he would, but in reality, he knows that only one thing could make him feel better, which is knowing the truth. 

There are people around them, but they are busy working and have their noses buried in their case files. John takes the opportunity to lace his fingers with Rogers in Rogers lap. 

Both their hands are cold as icicles, but neither let's go. 

John drags their intertwined hands closer to himself with a warm smile. One that reaches his eyes, despite everything else. "I need to go home."

Roger feels himself visibly crumble at the words, but John quickly adds, "Brian wanted to come and support you. I'll drive home so he can come with the car. Is that okay?"

Terrified of being left alone if only for a bit, Roger lies with a curt nod. "Okay." 

John senses his uneasiness and brings their hands to his lip for a chaste kiss. "I will drive a little over the speed limit, I promise. I'll order Brian to do the same."

Roger chuckles dryly, "You know he wouldn't."

"He would for you." John says against their clasped hands. Roger finds the idea of letting go repulsive and holds onto the touch, until John reluctantly forces himself to his feet to get away. Promising over his shoulder to bring his replacement soon. 

Roger stays in the chair, alone. He watches John disappear down the hallway out of the station and is then left alone with his thoughts and the occasional hum from the night officers examining the files for the how-many-th time, trying to find a clue about Rogers mother. 

Roger waits in anxious agony. 

★☆★

"Hey— no don't get up." Brian is by his side promptly pushing Roger back into his seat, before Rogers stiff muscles could cooperate. 

"You made it back." Roger can't help but smile when Brian wraps him up with a blanket he fishes out of the duffle bag he brought with him from home. Roger snuggles into the sheep's wool with a soft exhale, while Brian drags one of the uncomfortable chairs closer so he can sit opposite to Roger. Once he is seated, he again reaches for the bag again and pulls out a container and cutlery. Rogers mouth waters at the sight. "What do you have there?"

"Freddie made some sort of rice dish," At Rogers doubtful frown, Brian adds, "I made sure nothing was burned. I promise."

"Right."

Roger takes the opened container from him, licking his dry lips at the delightful aroma coming from his dinner. It is well past nine in the evening now and Roger has not managed to keep anything down since his mothers' news. If one doesn't count coffee or tea. 

He pulls his knees up into the chair to sit cross-legged and balances his food in his lap. 

Without looking up from his spoonful of spiced rice, Roger knows Brian is watching him intently. "Hm?" He asks after a long pause. 

Brian straightens up and shrugs just in time for Roger to lift his gaze. 

"John told me how you were doing." He elaborates in a tentative tone, that is to not draw attention from the hardworking men just across the room. "I'm surprised to see you're eating and smiling."

"Mhm, me too." Roger says around a mouthful. 

He can swallow too, he realizes. Now that he is really hungry to the point of his stomach cramping in on itself, his throat relaxes instinctively rather than work against the supplement of food. The warm food settles well in his belly and warms up his insides. No longer shivering and gagging with hunger, his senses sharpen and he can take a calculated look at Brian, who himself isn't eating or doing anything but watch Roger wolf away his meal. 

"You not eating?" He asks when he is halfway through already. Brian shakes his head, Roger frowns and pauses mid-bite. "Want some of mine?"

"I had food at home."

Roger hums and continues to eat. 

"I don't want to tip-toe around the topic." Brian adds in a careful and assessed tone. He steadies his eyes on Roger. "I am unsure whether to congratulate or comfort you. A-are you happy?" 

"I can't be." Roger argues. "Not until I know for sure."

"Understandable, yes. So they have yet to find anything... You'd think they'd have a system."

"You'd think." Roger snorts humourlessly.

Brian sends him a sad look, before he leans over to give Rogers knee a comforting squeeze. The warm touch lingers. "We will find something." 

"I hope so... He wouldn't be so cruel to lie to me, right?"

"I don't know." Brian answers honestly. Roger forgets that not every single person in the world has had first-hand experience with Richard. Sometimes it is hard to be around the same three people constantly, maybe that is a selfish thing to say considering what they have given up for him, but Roger grew up in an environment shared by people being abused by the same people who were abused by him. Janice would know what it was like to be around Richard. Imogen would have known. He even Crystal would have. "But, if she did die I promise you we will arrange a proper funeral when this is all over."

"A proper one?" Roger asks, because he has never been to one he can remember. 

Brian nods in a solemn promise, "A proper one, with a beautiful gravestone, enormous bouquets and reading out poetry for her. We all dress in black and say goodbye, a sendoff."

Roger can envision the scene better now. Something out of a movie. 

"I'd like that very much. Freddie would know how to make that very elegant."

"Freddie is not the most knowledgable about Christian funerals." Brian warns with a private smile, "But he would fill the gaps between tradition really well."

"I'm sure."

Roger finishes his meal soon after and Brian packs the container and cutlery back into his bag. 

Moments later, Oliver comes by to offer them a final tea before he is off duty. Brian finally meets the man and upon laying eyes on his competitor, he realizes with a relaxed face, that he has won before any competition had started. The interaction distracted Roger briefly from the tugging aches in his heart, that spreads painfully across his web of veins through every inch of his body. It hurts, thinking about his mother, it always hurts. 

The blanket slides off his shoulder and Brian is the one to pull if back in place, tucking Roger in neatly. Roger manages a crooked smile. "Thanks."

"John told me it was cold here." Brian sighs as he sits back into his wooden chair. 

The clock behind him reads something between eleven and midnight, Roger has long left his glasses on the tabletop to be able to read it from such a far distance. 

Sleep is beginning to tug at his consciousness. 

He normally does not sleep so early, but the adrenaline kick he had this morning is worn off and has left his beyond drained, to the point that it feels like his skeleton will far apart underneath his worn skin. An image of his meat holding his loose bones together creeps into his mind and Roger realizes he needs a rest. 

"If you're tired, you can sleep." Brian whispers. 

There are three men still left working on Winnifred's case, trying to locate her. Calls are coming in from jails, but there haven't been any hits. Nobody has returned from one of the hospitals that had taken in Bull Crew members. Hospitals being checked for both patients and corpses. 

Roger knows it will be likely she was there. 

He should stay up and wait for one of those investigators to come back, but the image of Brian in front of him blurs with sleep. He opens his mouth to speak, but all he manages is an exhausted jawn.

"I know, I know." Brian is in his space again, Roger opens his eyes and blinks up at him through heavy lids that barely cooperate. 

"What'y doing?" Roger asks when Brian manipulates his legs out of the previous crossed positon, to instead settle Roger in a semi-foetal position, but on his side in the leather chair. He hums gratefully when Brian wraps the blanket tight around Roger's shoulders and under his chin, keeping him warm. "If something comes up, please—"

"I'll wake you up immediately, I promise." Brian sits on the edge of the chair. Roger knows, because he enjoys his long elegant fingers threading through his hair, like his mother used to lul him to sleep.

Roger allows his eyes to shut completely, now that he is warm and as comfortable as one could be in a police station. He doesn't feel Brian move away, not even when Roger realizes he is falling asleep, still with a pit of anxiety eating at him from the inside out. 

Darkness overtakes him when his mind drifts from the future to the far-away past, the way he had taught himself to find sleep since his mother's death. His mind drifts to a time long ago. When he was a child and his mother was a constant factor in his life. His father was employed and they still lived in their large house in Kings Lynn. Before everything was taken away from him, piece by piece, until he stood alone and empty-handed at the mercy of Richard. 

Until Freddie came into his life and handed him everything back, piece by piece, until Roger felt whole again.

The quiet overtakes the darkness and Roger drifts off with a smoothened forehead. 

He doesn't know how long he sleeps. He is dreamless and close to the surface of the wakeful world. Too hyperaware of his location.

Therefore, when Brian clasps his arm, Roger jolts up with a gasp and grasps at his hand in shock.

He blinks away the sleep from his watery gaze. He looks around himself, noticing the three officers are gone. He still can't read the clock on the wall. 

He turns to Brian again. "What? What is it? What time is it?"

Before Brian answers, he pulls Roger to his feet and steadies him with his hands on his shoulders. Roger is wobbly and dizzy from his nap. His head pounds with the same persistent headache from before.

"They found her." Brian says breathlessly. He leans down and grabs his duffel bag, before slinging Rogers arm around his shoulder and moving down the hallway without further hesitation. He is smiling, like a manic, the corners of his cheeks spread wide. Roger is being jostled intensely as they walk. "They found her, Roger. Do you hear what I'm saying?" He asks. "They found her. They are bringing us to her now."

Roger opens his mouth to speak, he tries to move his legs along, he tries to breathe, but not a single part of his body functions. He just stares dumbly at Brian.

Brian chuckles and squeezes Rogers shoulder. His face is red and radiant with excitement. "I know. I just— they found her at one of the hospitals, they don't want us to travel by ourselves in public places, but it's a short drive from here and there won't be any traffic this early in the morning." Brian stops him just as they are about to step out of the station to the back, where a police car is waiting for them. Roger gets pressed against the doorpost. Brian stares down at him, studying him intently.

When Roger doesn't move and doesn't breathe, Brian concludes in a knowing tone, "Shock?"

Nodding, Roger swallows thickly. "I guess."

"You'll react differently when you see her. You just— it's hard to believe when you can't see it for yourself. Come, we ought to go now."

He offers Roger his hand, and Roger without hesitation takes it and allows Brian to drag him outside and into the back of the police car. His breathing is shocking steady, but his thundering heart betrays his inner state and his fingers are numb around the handle on the car door. 

He feels nothing and perhaps too much at once. 

Brian has to remind him to buckle his seatbelt and then waves a hand in front of Roger's face, saying, "I wondered if you could still blink." He must be smiling, because in a lighter tone he asks, "Shock?"

Roger nods curtly. "Shock."

The policeman in the front starts the car and drives into the sunset. But Roger stares only at the solid black cushion of the passenger seat.

★☆★

There is another agent waiting in front of the closed door outside his mothers' room. 

Roger follows behind the policeman that is escorted him and Brian from the station all the way up to the third floor in the hospital, nearly to his mothers bedside. 

At this point, Roger is barely keeping himself together. 

There is an wretched pit in his stomach and a little voice in his head warning him that this is all one awful joke or hallucination. 

He has to wrap his arms around his waist to keep himself from doubling over. Brian drags him along by his arm, the only reason why Roger has not crumbled to the floor yet. 

When they come to a halt in front of the grey door and the two agents greet each other in hushed tones. The guarding agent gives Brian and then Roger a once over, before nodding to her colleague. 

Their designated driver and bodyguard turns to Roger with a poorly contained smile. 

"You can go in now, and see her." He says.

Roger stops breathing altogether. His eyes flicker up at Brian, who gives him a nudge in the ribs. "Come on."

"What if it's all wrong?" Roger grimaces and brings his hands up to rub his eyes ferally and he lowers his voice for only Brian to hear. "What if it's not her? She'd be dead a second time around." _I wouldn't survive that._

Brian doesn't hesitate to grab Roger by the shoulders and force him to face up. His eyes are serious but sympathetic, as per usual. The familiarity brings Roger back to breathing. 

"You won't know until you see her." Brian says calmly. "You go in there and if anything is off, I'm right here— No I am not coming in with you, no. I can't. This is between you and her. Come on, chin up and shoulders straight. Take a deep breath and go inside." Brian smiles and strokes his hands down to squeeze Rogers arms in support. Roger follows his advice by forcing his body into a better posture and sucking in a deep breath. "She will have missed you just as much as you have missed her, believe me." 

"I do." Roger exhales shakily. 

When Brian lets go his hands start shaking immediately and is grateful that the police officer is the one who pushes the door open for him, saving Roger from fiddling with the knob. He thanks her with a jerky nod. She steps aside for Roger and allows him to enter the stark white room, matching the exact aesthetic of the rest of the hospital. 

The monotone colour forces his eyes to immediately fall onto the two figures lying in the only bed in the room. 

At the sound of the door opening and someone entering, they sit upright and turn their heads towards him. For a split second, Roger's heart crumbles to pieces, because the frail women with long hair greying at the roots, bones sticking out from her hospital gown and skin paler than the moon-- does not look like his mother.

But upon a second, longer look, her sunken blue eyes reflect his own and the wet crinkling smile that forms on her face is unmistakably her. 

Never have Roger's feet moved as fast as they did then. 

He rushes over to the bed and then jumps into her arms, like a child yearning for his mother's embrace. He throws himself at her and she, desperate not to let go, traps him in an airway off-cutting hug. 

If there was any doubt that those bony hands around his middle are hers, her natural scent has not changed over time. Roger pushes his nose into his her neck and inhales sharply, telling himself again and again that it is her, it is really her. At the same time he can hear his name being repeated above him, like a prayer sung into his hair. 

She is crying, he realizes as her chest shudders on every hitched breath she takes. She is sobbing his name and rocking them both from side to side.

Warmth flushes over Roger like he has never felt it before. 

He tries to open his eyes but they are blurred with tears. His heart pounds against hers, _her heart. He can hear her heartbeat._ Roger chokes on her name. Her eternal name. "Mummy. I missed you, mummy."

"Oh God, Roger. I missed you too." She rubs her palm between his shoulder blades, slow languid circles that always calmed him when he was a child. Her lips press against his forehead. They are warm and alive. "I missed you so much, so so much. I am sorry."

"Don't be."

"I am. I am so sorry." She cries, Roger feels her straining to breathe against him. He must be heavy for her now that she is all sticks and bones and he is on a normal diet for a twenty-one-year-old. He leans back to carry some of his own weight. She doesn't say anything, but he can hear her exhale gratefully. As he sits back, he takes the opportunity to tip his chin up to look at her. 

She has changed significantly and aged poorly, however harsh that may sound. 

Her skin has sunken and tightened around her skull like a skeleton. The warmth has disappeared from her skin tone and her lips are broken from dehydration. All of it evidence of living under harsh circumstances.

Something terrible has happened to her. But something terrible has happened to all of them.

Egged on by the silence, his mother breaks out in a smile again, one that like Rogers is so wide it must hurt her cheeks. She cups his face between her hands, rough and raw unlike the tender hands she had before. 

She cradles his cheeks to inspect him, critically under her sharp eye. 

After a moment of being studied, Roger asks, "Do I pass?"

"I miss the hair." His mother chuckles wetly. " _My_ blond hair. That you had from me."

"We should cut yours," He throws back, and reaches out to thread his fingers through the split ends at the bottom of her hair. It reaches past her lower back now, it has never been this long. Roger blinks rapidly, to try and keep the tears from falling, but he can't manage. Neither can his mother, which is his only consultation. "Where have you been?"

Her eyes don't avert, but he can tell it takes her quite some strength not to look away. 

Her shoulders sag and he almost takes it back, until she replies in a low monotone, "Alan's packaging warehouse, by the docks. We mostly packed the drug supplies as they were imported to us directly. It wasn't like it was with Richard. We didn't have to meet with clients on a regular basis, but sometimes we had visitors."

Roger presses his jaw into a fine line. Feeling his teeth grind together painfully in his shut mouth. 

He has heard of life in the packaging warehouse. He didn't imagine his mother would be amongst those working there. They take care of the drugs dosages, mixing them with flour or milk powder or caffeine. It was hard work and unpaid. Those who came there were not allowed to leave. He had never been there, the location is supposed to be incredibly secret, but Janice had tipped the police off on where it was. From what Roger was told, it took a half an hour drive before the next building, perhaps an hour for a true village from the supply docks. Making escape hard and unattractive, especially because those working there are rumoured to be kept captive to Alans best capacity. 

It is a hard pill to swallow, because he knows that the circumstances must have been terrible if his mother hadn't managed to escape either. 

She knew Richard had sent her there so he could have free access to her son in the most unsavoury manner. That's why Richard punished her to a lifetime of captivity, rather than death. She hadn't been able to escape the hardship. Otherwise she would have come for him. 

"Hey," She tips his chin up with her left hand, and smiles at him despite everything that has happened to her. Like she can read his mind, she adds, "It has happened now, we are still here. Both of us are still here. I wish I could have protected you, I didn't... I didn't know he would go so far. I thought we might run if he insisted, but he gave us no such luxuries. I never thought I would have you in my arms again, my sweet son. My Roger."

Roger allows her to duck his head down to press a kiss to his forehead. Her lips linger on his skin and Roger closes his eyes. 

He hadn't even noticed that he was clutching at her gown desperately, the way he did on his first days of school as a child, or when she would leave for work and left him alone with his father.

Just like then, he doesn't want her to go. 

"Besides,"

She takes a shuddering intake of breath, before her arm curls around the girl on the bed next to her. Roger had honesty forgotten she was there too, too engrossed with his mother. But now Winnifred pulls the little girl flush against her side, revealing her to Roger. 

Winnifred eyes Roger warily. Roger's eyes bounce back and forth between his mother and the child in her arm. "I got pregnant after one of the rare visits from a client." She blinks heavily. Roger's gut wrenches at the thought at the faraway pain in her crystal eyes. He knows that look and knows not to ask questions. "This is Clare, your sister."

Roger brings his hands up to his face to wipe his eyes dry, because immediately tears well up again. His heart bursts with a number of undescribable overwhelming emotions. 

His sister hides half her face in her mother's arm. She can't be older than three, maybe four if she's small. Her eyes are unmistakably blue and round, lidded like a half-moon. She is watching him with caution, but without his mothers' permission, Roger leans in and offers his sister a one-armed hug, which she at first hesitates to take. 

"I'm Roger." He says timidly. Hoping it would calm her down. "I'm your brother."

His mother nudges Clare with an encouraging smile, "I told you so much about him, remember? Roger your big brother? This is him."

Clares' eyes dart up at her mother, and then at him, they widen in realization. "Oh."

"It's nice to meet you." He sniffles. 

When she sees he is starting to cry again, she pulls herself up to her knees and tackles him in a full-bodied embrace. The air is knocked out of him, and Roger nearly topples over out of the bed, if it wasn't for the railing keeping him on. 

She nearly chokes him with how tight she holds onto his neck. Roger resists complaining to instead rub his hand up and down her back, the way Winnifred always does for him.

He looks at his mother from Clares' shoulder. He blinks owlishly at her. He finds it hard to speak a word now with the lump stuck in his throat caused by unspoken emotions and trauma he is no longer receiving therapy for. 

His mother is sympathetic and leans onto her knees to touch his shoulder and press a kiss to his cheek, still wet from the tear tracks. 

"We're home."

★☆★ __

_"Mummy?"_

_"Yes, doll?"_

_Winnifred bites back a smile when she finds Roger standing in the doorway to her and Michaels bedroom, clutching his teddy bear to his chest._

_She knew this would happen when she heard the weather forecast for the evening, but she had hoped to get Roger to sleep before the thunder would strike._

_It didn't work, apparently, because the clock on her bedside table reads 3 a.m. and he is standing there with two perfectly symmetric tearstains glistening on his cheeks. While nobody likes being woken up at this hour, she can't help but throw her blanket back to invite him onto the bed._

_"Thanks mummy." Roger yawns when he reaches her bedside and needs a hand to climb all the way onto the mattress._

_Winnifred carries him into bed and once he is safely there, curls an arm around him and his teddy bear. She quickly pulls the blanket back on over them both, before Michael wakes up, irritated._

_Roger turns around so he can snuggle up to her properly. His knees tucked to his chest and his face hidden in the crook of her neck._

_She watches him through hooded eyes and can't resist running her fingers through his sleep ruffled hair. Another loud crash of thunder and lightning make Roger flinch and cling onto her._

_"It's so loud." He whispers against her skin._

_Winnifred rubs his back, running long gentle circles on top of his shirt, offering both warmth and comfort. "I know baby. I know."_

_She kisses his forehead when the thunder subdues and he relaxes again. Her heart aches at the sight of her child frightened to the point of shivering. She holds him close and whispers gently, "Close your eyes. Imagine you are somewhere else. Somewhere you really like." Her fingers continue to brush down his fine unruly hair. "I always think about a happy memory from the past. I think about when you were born, or when you said your first word. Nothing has ever made me happier. What is your nice memory, Rog? The nicest day you've ever had."_

_"Today." Roger blurts out without a second of doubt. "When I got ice cream after dinner. And when you read my favourite book. That's the best day."_

_"Today was the best day?" Winnifred smiles so hard her cheeks hurt a little. With that broad smile it's hard to keep pressing kisses to his forehead, but the soft touches work Roger to sleep like nothing else. His eyes are already starting to droop. "I'm so glad to hear that."_

_"And when you pick me up from school and we saw the ducks." Roger adds in a slurred tone. "But I couldn't take 'm home."_

_"No baby, ducks belong in the pond in the park. Not at home."_

_"I know." Roger sighs, "But we'll jus go see 'm again."_

_His eyes have fluttered shut now and Winnifred continues to gently rake her fingers through his tresses. His breathing is slowing down and the thunder seems to have quieted down long enough for him to go back to sleep._

_"I'm sleepy mummy."_

_"I know, baby, go to sleep."_

_He tightens his arm around her once, as if to check she is really still there, before his arm goes slack in sleep. Winnifred smiles in victory, Michael hadn't woken up and Roger has gone back to sleep again in less than five minutes._

_She should go back to sleep too, but not after looking down at her peaceful son for a moment longer, taking in the gentle fluttering of his lashes in a dream and the soft exhales that come from his parted lips. He is at peace and therefore, she is too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up on Tumblr!!! I’m @emmaandorlando and we can be friendsies. I do take asks and love interacting with the fandom


	37. Of Vehemence and Rocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger has regained the beloveds in his life, but he struggles with keeping the darkness out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH!!!!
> 
> University is starting again may god safe us

"No- Fred. Is there rum in this?"

"Only just a little!" Freddie grins a little wider and keeps holding the cup out to Roger. 

"I can't, I'm visiting mum later."

Roger thursts the cup back to Freddie and gets up from the couch to make himself a glass of orange juice instead. He sees Freddie roll his eyes from the corner of his eyes, but it is fond and brief. 

Freddie flops down next to John and wriggles himself under his arm. He hands John his tea while nearly spilling his own in the process. 

John gives him a disapproving glare, but Freddie pretends to be too engrossed in his drink to notice. 

Roger finds himself smiling and pouring his drink semi-distracted by the serene scene.

Outside the grey clouds cast over the country house, promising Englands famous autumn rain. Brian is crossed-legged on the floor strumming the softest tunes on his guitar with the brush of his fingers. Birds are chirping outside and the wind rattles the creaking foundation of the house. The cats have curled up next to the heater in a heap of paws and terrifyingly beautiful eyes. 

Roger nearly overpours his glass before he stops looking lovingly at the back of Freddie's and John's head. The two of them so close and radiant with good energy that Roger feels the tips of his fingers tingle with joy.

Yes, there is a serious chance that Richard might get bail and might be able to pay for it. 

But his mother is back and alive. Plus, Roger has gotten what he always begged and nagged for as a child, a younger sibling. 

He walks around the couch and flops down on the floor next to Brian. He is the only one dressed to go anywhere. During their time in witness protection the boys have stopped bothering to wear anything but pajamas and other lounge clothes. Roger is still used to his denim jeans and shoes, while John hadn't bothered with underwear under his pajama bottom today. 

"Everything alright?" Brian asks without pausing his melodic fingers dancing across the finely tuned strings on his guitar. He nudges Rogers shoulder and Roger, without spilling any juice over his sweater, nudges him back. 

"Just excited to see mum." Roger admits. 

He eyes the clock over the coffee table and notes that there is still half an hour to kill before he can start the journey to the hospital. The police gives him certain days and timeslots he is allowed to visit her and his sister, but Roger in reality knows that this arrangement won't last. As soon as she is recovered enough she will be taken into custody and Roger doesn't even know what they will do to his sister. He knows that while in witness protection, he can't have her. 

Like the grey skies outside, darkness clouds the thoughts roaming Rogers head. The looming court case, Richards bail and his mothers fate are all up for grabs. There might be a chance she will be getting bail too, but nothing concrete has been said yet. 

For the amount of drug packaging she has been involved in, she might be in serious trouble. They will have to proof she was a victim here, rather than a coconspirator. 

"Hey, Rog."

Roger turns his head to look at Brian. He hadn't noticed he had stopped playing some time ago. 

Brian folds his arms on the guitar and rests his chin on top. "It will me okay."

Roger returns his smile, if somewhat forced.

"Thanks, Bri."

"No, not 'thanks Bri'," Brians eyes soften when he blinks and with unsettling ease he says, "It will be okay. Remember where you were a year ago. See where you are now."

"The biggest comeback I've ever seen, darling." Freddie calls from the couch with his own encouraging smile.

Roger struggles holding his smile. He often tries not to think too much of the last five years, prior to stumbling across Freddie by accident so many months ago. There are no good memories. It started with the death of his mother and ended with the birth of a friendship he owed his life to. 

No matter how silly Freddie might act to get them through rough patches, Roger owes him everything. And now he is repaying them by taking months out of their lives in forced witness protection. Cutting them off from work, friends and family. Roger wants to openly feel joy for his mothers return, but the temporary nature of their reunion combined with his boyfriends' growing misery, makes it hard. 

Something must have shown on his face, because Freddie drops the obnoxious smile and replaces it with something more private and endearing. 

"It will be fine."

"I know." Roger exhales. He taps his nails on his glass to suppress the urge to say what is on his mind, but those alluring brown eyes make it hard to keep his lips shut. "Despite the strict rules on our visits, I was wondering maybe you could come along with me."

Freddie's eyes widen in surprise. Beside him, Johns eyes twinkle with delight at the exchange. He gives Freddie a squeeze. "I doubt the police would let you into her room, but maybe you can think of something. Well?"

"Roger, dear I would be honored." He chuckles and gets up to throw himself at Roger, and certainly there is tea flying everywhere now, but Roger doesn't care and catches Freddie in a one-armed hug. "Are you sure? If it's too soon, or if she isn't okay with us—"

"She wants to know who you guys are, one at a time of course, if that at all, but yes. She's always asking."

He has barely finished talking when Freddie presses his lips flush against his and capture Roger into a sweet and languid kiss that tastes like tea and rum. 

Roger wraps his arm tighter around Freddie's neck to keep them both from toppling over and hitting their heads. 

The tender nature of the kiss still takes Roger aback, compared to the times Richard had forced his touch chapped lips to Rogers and had his way with him, devouring him. Where Richard was brutal force, Freddie is calm. They move together like the rocking waves of the ocean, in rhythm and in no haste. 

Whenever Roger thinks too much of Richard his heart bristles and his mood drops like a pebble in the river. Sometimes he wishes he could erase the last five years from his mind and wake up only to the memory of his Freddie's lips against his, in bed with the others.

But that is wishful thinking, something he doesn't have the luxury of doing with the courtdate looming in the horizon. 

"You're so distracted." Freddie pulls away to rest his forehead against Rogers. He brushes his parted lips against Rogers, asking, "You're okay, right?" 

"I will be." 

Roger closes his eyes when Brian quietly goes back to playing his guitar and a few moments later, Freddie climbs out of his lap with the excuse that he needs to get ready to meet Rogers mother. His lips ghost over Rogers long after he has left for the bathroom down the hall. 

John casts him a nod across the room, he wears a fascial expression Roger can't read, so he knows he isn't in trouble, but it isn't a promise for anything good either. 

★☆★

Clare jumps into his arms as soon as Roger steps through the door.

He catches her in a hug and puts her on his hip.

"I missed you too." He grins at her in greeting, while he walks over to the bed he approaches his mother and every day he finds her looking more healthy and energetic. He sits down on the edge of the bed. He offers her his cheek and his mother kisses him kindly.

"She's grown very fond of you. She keeps asking when you'll come again." Winnifred smiles. 

Roger adjusts Clare to sit on his knee instead, he keeps an arm secure around her to keep her from sliding off. Her eyes shine bright in mirth when he pushes a blonde strand behind her ear. "You know I'll always come back, right?" 

"I know." She grasps at his arm and holds on while leaning back dangerously. "I just wondered."

Winnifred and Roger chuckle.

His mothers hand rests atop his shoulder. Her palm is warm and familiar and Roger leans into the touch like he's starved for it. 

His family puts his mind at ease and takes his guard down. He almost forgets that Freddie is in the hallway waiting eagerly, until he hears a pointed cough coming from the door.

"Oh!" 

Roger straightens his back and twists his midrif further to face his mother.

"Actually, mum. I've got someone waiting to meet you." 

Her eyebrows raise in an unsaid question before she turns her head to see Freddie slip through the gap in the door with his arms behind his back and a generous smile across his face. 

Roger watches the exchange holding his breath.

Both Freddie and Winnifred play a big role in Rogers life and its development. He almost squeezes Clare to bits with the nerves of which he suffers from. 

Freddie shuffles into the room after closing the door with a soft click.

"Hi." He whispers. "I don't have much time, I convinced the guarding policeman I'd just hand over a little something." 

Winnifred sits upright in the bed. To both Rogers and Freddie's relief, her face breaks out into a broad, open smile. "Come on in, come on in." She beckons him closer to the bed and extends her arm. "I'm Winnifred, Rogers mum. And you must be Freddie."

"Freddie, yes." Freddie keeps one arm on his back and the other he shakes Winnifreds hand. He leans in to brush his lips against her cheek. "It's an honor meeting you." 

Roger watches his mother open her mouth. Her expression softens, but her brows knit together in stress. 

"I have no idea how to start thanking you."

"There is really no need." Freddie chuckles wetly. Roger feels emotions welling up in his eyes too, but he blinks them away rapidly before anyone pays attention to him again. 

Freddie does look at Roger, a moment later. Their eyes lock in a warm exchange of glances. Rogers chest overflows with fondness when Freddie drops his eyes to Clare instead to reveal what he has been holding behind his back.

"Hi pretty girl, I thought you might like a little something."

Clare throughout the conversation had hidden half her face in Rogers shoulder, never keen on strangers, but when Freddie pokes her arm with the paw of the stuffed bear he is holding, she manages to give him a daring chance.

At the sight of her present, Roger sees her eyes lit up with wonder. 

Roger gives her a little nudge that forces her to face Freddie. "Look at Freddie brought you."

"Is that for me?" Clare asks and her eyes narrow suspiciously. 

Freddie smiles and crouches enough to be at eye-level with her as he holds out the stuffed bear to her. "Yes, it's a little nice-to-meet-you present. Come on, you can take it."

Clare stretches out her arms and wraps them around the beard neck with a squeal. 

"Thank you, Freddie!" 

She turns to Roger to show off her new toy. "Look what I got, Rog." 

"I see it. That was very kind of Freddie." Roger's cheeks hurt smiling so hard. He balances Clare on his knee and rubs his hand between her shoulders. "What will you name her?"

" _He_ , is named Roger." 

"But that's my name." Roger gasps. 

Clare chuckles and wriggles the bears face in front of Rogers eyes. "Then I can always have Roger with me." 

Roger grabs a hold of the toy and gently puts it back against her chest where she curls an arm around little Rogers waist. 

He lifts his gazs to meet his mothers now softly sad eyes.

Before the silence stretches on for too long, Freddie gently says, "That's lovely Clare, Roger doesn't mind sharing a name, does he?"

"No." Roger gulps. "I don't." 

He tries not to think about Richard and spoil this moment, but there is a lump in his throat in the form of his name. Rogers eyes sting with tears. 

A session with Dominique could lift some of this weight from his shoulders. He thinks he should ask to arrange calls with her, perhaps not from home but from the hospital or police station. Anything but this grasping for a ways to make his mind focus on the now without collapsing under the dread of the future. 

His mother is alive and she has a growing fondness and acceptance for the way of Rogers life. 

But the trial looms ahead and so does Richards possible bail. God knows what he will do once he gets it. 

Roger fears the worst. 

Only when Clare tugs on his hair does Roger yelp his way back to reality, she wriggles in his lap and pushes on his chest. 

"Roger? Are you okay?" 

He blinks again, rapidly, behind his irritating glasses. And forces a smile at her that he knows neither Freddie or his mother believe. 

"Yes I am, sorry. I thought you were talking to your bear now."

Clare chuckles, shaking her head. "No! Don't be silly."

A real chuckle forces past his lips and he hugs her close against himself. "I'm sorry." 

★☆★

It is usually Freddie or Brian who come in with the idea of a song.

Then it is up to John and Roger to lay out the skeleton of a rhythm and beat, often to the simple melody either Freddie or Brian have come up with on their piano or guitar. They usually have some lyrics, giving Roger the opportunity to bask in the soft and sometimes rougher waves of their singing voices. 

Today Brian had come in with an older idea he'd had laying around for a while. It has good lyrics, but barely any music from what Brian has shown.

It was up to Roger to lay down the drumming track, starting with a steady fast paced hi-hat that morphs into a richer sound when he add the base and snare drum. 

John watches him play, licks the tips of his fingers, before he pulls on the snares of his bass, amplified to one of its loudest settings. His track fits in seamlessly with Rogers and for a long moment it is just the two of them, playing the same intro over and over again, until Roger feels sweat beating down his temple and John has closed his eyes, bopping his head, lost in the music.

Roger doesn't usually drum with his eyes closed, he likes to see what he is doing, now that he is still getting used to the instrument. 

That is why he catches Freddie and Brian marvelling quietly at the sound he and John produce, only from the idea Brian had brought into their makeshift studio. 

Eventually, after replaying the intro at least twelve times in a row, Roger stops drumming and John follows with abruptly reopening his eyes. "What?"

"I like it." Roger is still panting for breath. He smirks at Freddie and Brian, both lounging against the piano. 

Freddie rolls his eyes. "Bunch of show-offs, you are lucky you're good."

"You're really good." Brian adds a bit more serious. There is a crease between his eyebrows. He glances between them hastily. "It works perfectly for the song."

John rests his hands lazily on his bass, asking kindly, "Read the lyrics one more time?" 

Brian rustles across the piano to grab his journal and flips to one of the first pages. 

Freddie plops himself down on the seat in front of the piano and closes his eyes while he listens to Brian reading from the pages, his black painted fingers hovering over the keys with anticipation. 

"It's called Keep Yourself Alive," Brian begins, "I was told a million times of all the troubles in my way. Mind you grow a little wiser, little better every day, But if I crossed a million rivers. And I rode a million miles— uhm..."

Freddie still has his eyes closed when he adds in a singing tone that still sends a warm shiver down Rogers spine, " _Then I'd still be where I started. Bread and butter for a smile_."

Brian blinks and scrambles for a pencil to write that down. "I like that."

"Good, good. Now grab your guitar. Deacky and Roger play the intro again, I don't think we need a piano for this, I'm thinking guitar and heavy bass."

The project is taken over by Freddie and they all lean eagerly into his leadership. Brian grabs his guitar by command and John plugs it into the amplifier for him while Brian fiddles with his pockets to find a penny to use as a plectrum. 

Freddie is getting to his feet and takes Brians journal with he pencil. Roger observes how his eyes scan over the page, how he crosses through words and sentences and scribbles frantically where he finds pieces he likes. Brian notices too when the sound of the scarping pencil becomes louder. 

"Uhm, Fred?"

"Hm?"

"That's my song."

Freddie looks up from the journal to acknowledge Brians turned down lips. "Darling, I am singing it, and there are many bits missing."

"You can't just write in my notebook. And cross through words I've thought of." He steps closer to Freddie and makes a grab for what is his, but Freddie jumps back in time to avoid his claws. "Give it back."

John rolls his eyes. "Guys."

"Freddie, I mean it. That's my songbook. If you want to change stuff, write it in your own book." When Freddie won't hand it over and keeps writing rapidly with his tongue sticking out, Roger is well aware he is taking the piss. "At least start on a new page." Brian whines. 

John steps up to them to interfere when things get more heated, mostly on Brians part. 

They are interrupted just as John and his bass step between the two singers, by the shrill ringing of the phone down the hallway. 

Everyone freezes in place, but only after turning their heads to Roger. 

No calls have been scheduled for this afternoon, which more than likely means bad news. 

Roger's legs force himself off his drum stool before anything else registers with himself. He unclenches his fists to let his sticks roll out of his palm onto the floor. He squeezes past the small space between the wall and his drumset to get to the door.

Nobody has spoken a word. Words seem to have gotten stuck in Roger's throat.

He pushes through the door into the hallway. He can vaguely hear the others follow up behind him, but his neck is too stiff to turn around and check.

He reaches the phone before the ringing ends. With numb fingers, he takes it off the receiver and holds the connecting line to his ear. 

Roger swallows thickly and stares off at the ugly swimming wallpaper in front of him. He isn't crying, but he is dizzy with nerves. His stomach twists and his jaw is clenched hard enough to make a vein pop if he continues. All of that in the span of a second that it takes for his phone to connect to the caller.

A familiar click announces they have come through. Roger holds his breath, waiting. 

"Officer Leonard here, who do I have there?"

Brian is the first to arrive at his side, guitar still wrapped around his shoulders. He puts a hand on Roger's forearm, supporting the hand that holds the phone. 

"Roger here." He manages to say without sounding half as broken as he feels. 

There is no reassurance in the exhausted exhale that comes through the receiver. Roger braces himself for what he knows comes next. 

"I come bearing unfortunate news. We are not obligated to tell you this, but it felt like the decent thing to do." He clears his throat, almost sheepishly, before he speaks the dreaded words that have been keeping Roger up at night. Rogers world is already spinning. "Richard has posted bail, he will be let go by the end of the day."

Roger squeezes his eyes shut. 

"This doesn't mean that he will escape judgement, we will try to get multiple witnesses to confess Richard was part of the bigger scheme of the Bull Crew, but until now, we haven't gotten testimony's from his colleagues or files implying that he played a bigger role than selling drugs on occasion, dating back a decade. We will find a way to prosecute him, we will keep exhausting our resources."

The phone is taken from his grasp by John, who had been listening along with his face pressed against Rogers. He now puts the phone to his ear and asks, "I read into the bail procedures in this country. It is usually not granted to people whom the court and police believe pose a high risk of doing crimes while out on bail, or a high chance of not showing up to their court case. How does Richard not fall under either of those?"

"We have simply chosen not to take him to court for anything else but his strings to the drug selling within the Bull Crew, we cannot guarantee his pals will give us the information that links him to other crimes within the hierarchy. We have chosen not to bring those things in, because there is no proof. When there is proof, we can do so."

"You could plead with the court that he poses too much of a risk."

"How do you expect us to—"

Roger pushes away from the wall, John and from Freddie, who tries to grasp for Roger as he runs into the living room, breathing too fast, his chest too tight and his skin itching all over like a high fever. His legs rush him through the backdoor in the living room that leads into the enormous garden attached to the country house.

He can barely see through the thick coat of rain that had cloaked over the landscape. He runs into it, in only his socks and t-shirt. The loud continuous clattering of the drops onto the roof of the house poses for a good distraction from Officer Leonards voice in his head. Telling him what he most feared for weeks.

It is easily replaced by Richards cruel words when the rain numbs down his fresher memories and brings up old, heart wrenching thoughts. 

_You're repulsive to look at. You are nothing now. You have never been anything._

Roger jogs several yards, until his thighs burn and he is literally gasping for air in the thick mist. He falls to his knees in the muddy grass. He is close to the small shack in the back of the yard where the past owners kept basic tools for the garden. He had never been here before, but that doesn't stop him from taking a break to gasp for air. 

He huddles against the wooden wall and rubs his cold hands over his wet face. 

_You turned us in, you rat. You are a rat. A disgusting, ungrateful bag of shit. Biting the hand that fed you, kept you clothed and warm for years._

Desperately he tries to make Richard's voice stay out. He rubs at his eyes, he presses the back of his palm into his eyes and when his loud sinister evil tongue keeps aching through Roger's mind, he starts to smack his face with a flat palm. He slaps himself over and over again. Like a lunatic, too far gone to stop his trembling hands and let reason take control again. Roger claws at his face, smacks himself, until his cheeks are aflame and Richards taunting voice only grows in volume. 

_You are nothing, you are less than nothing._

_There are no words to describe how fucking worthless you are._

★☆★

Roger cries.

He sits alone, in the rain, wedged between a large oak tree and the abandoned shack. His abundance of tears are masked by the downpour of rain. 

He's crying like the day his mother died. Sobbing in an ugly childlike way that leaves his throat hoarse and his stomach cramping. Every single muscle in his body aches from how the cold seeps through his soaked clothes. He fears that even when he is done crying, his bones have grown too stiff and frozen to get up again. 

For now, the crying is still enough to have him distracted from reality. His chest heaves and his fingers tremble where they grip his knees. 

He can't see, not through the rain, not without his glasses.

He can only tell that Freddie is there when he is right in front of him, sinking into a crouch to come eye-to-eye with him. 

"Hey," He forces a smile when he puts a hand on top of Rogers. "Hey come inside, you don't want to catch a cold before the trial."

"I just wanna visit my mum." Roger sobs, rocking back and forth in a frantic need for comfort he knows he won't get, because Richard will be out there, looking for him, for revenge for taking down the crew and trying to take him out too. Roger was foolish thinking the police would protect him. He was foolish to trust everything would be okay, for once. "I want to see my therapist, I need to talk to Dominique, I'm going insane. I need to know how my friends are doing. I need to know how Crystal is, how Janice is, how my sister is. I can't." He shakes his head and sobs louder, his chest aches with the force when he forces the words out. "He's free and I'm not." 

With a sigh, Freddie gives up on keeping his clothes clean and lands on his butt next to Roger, between the tree and his boyfriend. 

He wraps an arm around Roger's shoulders and forces him to lean against him rather than the cold wooden shack, Roger knows poses a danger for splinters. Nothing could truly comfort Roger now, but the warmth that comes off Freddie is close enough. 

Freddie holds him tight and rocks him, like Roger had rocked himself. 

"He is bound to many rules during this time, so John has told me. I doubt he would try something now under the police's magnifying glass." He threads a finger through Rogers wet hair, and adds in a more hesitant tone, "I think the biggest worry is him trying to outrun the authorities. I think he's going to make a run for it to escape judgement." 

Roger shakes his head frantically, hitting Freddie with more rain droplets. 

"He's off the hinges. He knows he's going down, he'll try to inflict as much harm as he can. He's going to hurt me." 

Without telling Roger he is being irrational, without arguing against his logic, Freddie sighs and pulls Roger flush against his side again, to calm him down. It doesn't work completely, but it helps that Roger is inhaling Freddie's scent and kept a little drier under his chin. 

"Perhaps," Freddie suggests in a whisper that barely makes it above the sound of the rain, "We can arrange somewhere safe for your sister to stay, to keep her out of the system, but also far away from us, just in case Richard tries something. And maybe we can find a way for you to have contact with your mother and with your friends more regularly, we're all going mad from only seeing the four of us. Perhaps ask the police if you can call Dominique from the station, so she won't know the phone number from our protected location. Hm?"

There is truly no point in wiping his tears. It is a small comfort in the storm of his life. 

His mother will likely go to jail, perhaps without the possibility of posting bail. If Roger doesn't have family left alive, Clare will end up in the system, Richard is on the streets and Roger has no clue how Dominique, Crystal or Janice are doing. 

It is a small comfort, but he knows it is everything Freddie can realistically offer. 

Roger blinks through his blurry gaze to meet Freddie's questioning gaze. He nods, bopping his head. "I'd like that. Please."

"We'll make it happen, Rog. One way or another. I promise you, I'll make it happen."

Freddie then, much to Rogers chagrin, pushes himself up from his sitting position to get back up. He offers Roger his arms with a small smile. 

"Come on, Darling. Brian is waiting inside with some tea." He says with wriggling eyebrows. 

Rain droplets stick to the hairs on his face and to his skin. He is soaked wet and Roger must be ten times worse. He stretches his arms out for Freddie to drag him up to his feet. "John will have some ideas on how we can accomplish some of those goals— Oh! Maybe one of our mums would be interested in taking in your little sister. I know my mother would be delighted to have—"

Roger allows the chatter to wash over him. It is the only sound he has ever encountered that has truly managed to drown Richards voice out of his head.

He needs Freddie's support to cross the yard, but together they make it. The same way they have come so far already. 

★☆★ __

_"No."_

_"What?!" Roger hisses when Freddie tucks on his hair and the roots pull at his scalp. In apology, Freddie massages his scalp kindly while still addressing John, who is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. "He needs a haircut."_

_"No. Not from you."_

_"I've got a steady hand!" Freddie puts his hands on Rogers shoulders. His dark hair has fallen past his shoulders again and the roots are blond._

_John presses his lips into a thin disapproving line. "You are not touching Rogers hair again."_

_"If we don't give it a trim and touch-up, he'll stand out."_

_Roger, sitting quietly like a prop, meaning not to interfere, glances steadily between his two boyfriends._

_Freddie won't allow himself to suffer alone under Johns wrath. He gives Roger a nudge._

_"Darling, don't you agree?"_

_"Eh," Roger gulps and bristles under Johns heated gaze. "It's not really a haircut, just a trim."_

_"If it's butchered again, there is no way for you to see a hairdresser before the trial."_

_Roger bites his lip. And Freddie wraps his arms around his shoulders. "I'll be really careful. Practice makes perfect."_

_"We'll be fine." Roger grins._

_John's eyes roll all the way back into his skull before he puts his arms up in defeat and leaves the room walking backwards, the same way as he had entered._

_Freddie takes it as approval._

_He clasps his arms together and relaxes Roger back into the chair they brought from the study into the bathroom._

_His fingers tangle through the brown tresses. Freddie tuts as he reaches for the scissors on the vanity. Roger looks at him through the mirror and admittedly, his blue eyes pop with the dark hair color._

_"Fred?"_

_"Yes dear?"_

_Roger grabs his wrist just before Freddie starts using the scissors for the first cut. "Shouldn't my hair be wet?"_

_"I can't really do layers, so when it's dry I have a better vision for the final look."_

_The insecurity grimaces Rogers face._

_Freddie pretends he doesn't see it._

_He snaps the scissors in the air, they're audibly sharp, which is the last sound before Freddie starts with the back of Rogers hair and starts trimming the edges._

_"I trust you." Roger closes his eyes and leans his head back. "I trust you but I don't know why."_

_"Don't move."_

_Freddie crouches down and doesn't say anything when he takes a good ten centimeters from Rogers length. Trying to keep it a little above the shoulder so they won't have to do this again in a little while._

_"I like this length on you."_

_"Do you— Freddie." Roger erupts into giggles when Freddie nibbles the sensitive skin beneath Rogers jaw. "What are you doing?"_

_"Couldn't help myself."_

_Freddie kisses the soft patch of skin, then he breathes in deeply, smelling Rogers clean scent._

_"You're the worst hairdresser."_

_"I could leave you like this, y'know." Freddie hums, now that he has half of Rogers hair cut and the other half still falling past his shoulders. Freddie snorts. "Quite the look."_

_"Don't think John would let me leave the house like this."_

_"He'd shave you bald."_

_They laugh and Freddie pulls back to finish to (almost) evenly cut Rogers hair into a straight line. He looks a bit more like himself and a little less girly._

_He knows Roger agrees. He smiles at himself and shakes his head from one side to the other in admiration._

_"I like it."_

_Freddie grins. "Good, good! Then I think it's time for a paint. Your roots are showing."_

_"As long as they aren't grey."_

_"Well," Freddie huffs as he fiddles through the cabinets above the mirror to find the hairdye kit. "If I encounter any, you're out. No way one of my boyfriends is going grey in their twenties."_

_"You'd throw me out?" Roger tilts his head back all the way, so he can pout at Freddie upside down._

_Heart melting, Freddie leans in and presses a long kiss to his awaiting lips._

_Freddie grins and against Rogers mouth he says, "I'd never."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀 tell me what you’re thinking ❤️


	38. Of Contact and Frugality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is going south again. Roger is working through a series of emotions, mostly bittersweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg. So. 9k chapter. Enjoy. Omg.

It turns out that his mother is much better in dealing with her emotions than he is.

Granted, she has lived a lot longer than he and became a mother twice, raising her children under dire circumstances twice, without letting them notice exactly how dreadful their situation was.

Winnifred is grade A in hiding emotions, Roger feels envy at her facade of calm. Wishing he had the same ability to control his emotions. 

He is starting to think he is more nervous for her than she is with her release date looming ahead. 

As if she can read his mind, his mother tilts her chin up to show off her calm smile. "I hope that face you're pulling isn't for me." 

When Roger doesn't answer, Winnifred sighs and pulls him towards her to wrap him into a tight hug. Roger hugs her back in a more desperate squeeze than he had meant to give, but a small voice tells him this might be the last time in a while before he gets to touch her again. "I'll have an appointment with my lawyer tomorrow, Rog. There is no reason to assume he wouldn't be able to help me."

Roger presses his lips into a tight line. 

The Bulsaras and Mays had kindly chipped in to help Winnifred afford a better lawyer than the state-appointed one. 

It was a kind gift, one that Brian and Freddie has arranged through letters without Rogers knowing. The debt he has to repay them only grows in size by the day, but as much as Roger wishes he wouldn't have to take more money from his in-laws, his mother needs a lawyer now that she is being discharged from the hospital and send to jail. 

"Baby, look at me."

She lifts his chin with a kind and reassuring smile. Roger doesn't try to smile back. He imagines his mother in the same bland clothes as Richard and it makes his stomach churn. 

"I will be fine. I won't go to jail longer than the time pf trial. Alright? I might even get bail. The lawyer might help me reduce the time if I get any at all. You musn't give up hope." 

She cups his cheeks between her warm and dry hands. Roger leans into the touch like a starved child, which in a sense, he is.

He blinks up at her, and she offers him a kiss on the nose that lingers. 

"I will be okay."

"I don't want to see you go." Roger bites the inside of his cheek to keep his voice from breaking. He glances sideways at Clare, who is playing with her bear at the floor next to the bed. She is still distracted and takes no note of how disturbed Roger is feeling. "She'll miss you and I'll miss you."

"The lawyer will come by tomorrow and I will be out by the end of the trial, I promise you. Besides, it can't be worse than my time at the docks under Alan."

There is no comfort in that. His mother isn't a criminal, she is a victim. To see her get punished for her abuse, is gut-wrenching. 

She squeezes his cheeks and smiles at the chub that hasn't been there since he was a toddler. 

"Your mum has missed your beautiful smile for so many years. Can you smile for me?"

"I'm upset." Roger huffs, but when her fingers give him another prompted squeeze he does allow the corners of his cheeks to lift slightly. "I don't want to be without you again."

"And neither will your sister like being separated, but," Winnifred smiles and strokes her thumbs on both sides over Roger's face. "We will be alright. I will be out in no time, I just know it."

Now that their conversation has come down to a mere whisper, Clare has grown suspicious and with her bear under her arm, she scoots over to them. 

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, sweetie, starting today you will be staying with your grandmother." Winnifred lets go of Roger so he can reach down and lift his sister on the bed snug between them. 

She climbs into Rogers lap and hangs onto his arms until he wraps them around her and rocks her gently while their mother speaks. 

"Remember when I told you about grandma? And that you will be staying with her for a few weeks?"

"I remember." Clare states, but doesn't look very happy about it.

Helping his mother out, Roger hums loudly and thinks out loud, "You know, I haven't seen grandma in years. I hadn't even thought of her... She makes the best cookies."

Clare had only recently been introduced to the wonders of biscuits and candy, but she is a changed girl ever since. 

Her ears perk up and she tips her chin up to ask Roger, "Is she nice?"

Roger bops his head. "She is the nicest. Especially to sweet little girls."

This satisfies her and a moment later she takes Bear Roger with her to slide off the bed and sit at the sealed windowsill one last time before they will be asked to leave permanently. 

It won't be an easy day. Roger is scheduled to go before Winnifred will be brought to jail, while his sister will be handed over to his grandmother by a social worker who had helped arranging Rogers grandmother to have Clares custody. He wishes he could be there during the shift, he knows that would be easier for her than the constant confrontation with strangers, but he knows that he is in no position to make demands. 

His mother is watching Clare play while Roger watches her. 

She has aged too much for a short five years apart. It is still a stark difference from the mother his memory had left him. 

She doesn't say anything at first when their eyes meet, but Roger thinks he can finally sense some of the dread coming off her that he has been feeling too. 

"He is out now. Off on bail."

"I know." She smiles sadly. "They say grandma will be monitored until after the court trial is over, and that there will be no obvious traces between you, me and Clare."

Roger nods jerkily.

He has heard it all before, and he is scared to leave his sister in the hands of the police when everything has come to such a critical point. Roger shouldn't even be leaving the house anymore, but he had needed to see his mother before she was send off to jail. He has to be careful nobody is following him on the way back to the farmhouse. 

He knows Richard will try something. Will be out for revenge. The thought makes his skin crawl. If anything happens, he hopes it happens to him, not to anyone else.

"Roger?"

He turns back to his mother and hums. "Yeah?"

An uncomfortable pinch has taken over the usual expression on her pale face. He straightens up at the sight, a little alarmed.

Winnifred sighs and shakes her head. "I don't want to ask you this, but I have to."

"What?"

"Until all of this is resolved," Her eyes slide sideways to keep a watch out for Clare, when they both see that she is still playing peacefully they meet eyes again and his mother exhales. "I have to ask you..."

Roger swallows thickly when the words get stuck in his throat too. 

"I know. I'll stay away from her."

His mother lowers her eyes, but only to catch his. She ducks her neck to come back to the same eye level. Her orbs are comforting even to the broken shards that make up for his heart now. 

Roger knows that if Richard gets even a whiff of Clare, that her life is in danger. Richard is out and out for revenge. His mother knows it too. He can't see her or be seen with her, until all of this is over. 

"I'm sorry." Winnifred says after a long pause. "I really am."

Roger forces himself to give her a curt smile. 

"I know."

★☆★

The first court day couldn't have come sooner. 

Roger has spend the last two weeks with his heart in his throat, unable to sleep, haunted by nightmares and one more skipped meals away from passing out. 

His mother had not been granted bail. Not after being charged with handling and helping with the distribution of tonnes of drugs, estimated bringing in over a million pounds in profit for Alan at the docks. The lawyer is still going to represent her in court and plead her case as a victim. Until then, his mother is stuck in jail, awaiting trial. 

This makes Roger even more anxious to get it over with. 

The sooner the trial is over, the sooner he can reuinte with his mother and sister, his boyfriends can see their families again and Richard can be put in jail where he belongs with the others in the crew. 

Freddie is the one to help Roger prepare for court. 

He washes out the old brown dye from Rogers hair. Looking in the mirror on the day of the trial, it still hasn't gone back to the original color, leaving his hair a light brown. 

Freddie borrows Roger a simple white collar blouse with cufflings that once belonged to his father. He wears checkered trousers once John's and the outfit makes him stand a little taller, despite knowing what is to come. 

It is John who drives him to court. They drive the car in silence while the radio fills the empty space. 

For the past few days Roger hasn't talked much at all. He had been too anxious to sleep, knowing Richard is out there, somewhere while his mother is in jail, cold and alone. 

Not a moment goes by where Roger can unclench his jaw, loosen his fists and relax his shoulders. 

All the windows and doors in the house are sealed and all the curtains have been drawn. Roger still fears that they are being spied on, and his boyfriends are unsure how to calm him down when the fear for his life becomes all consuming. 

His body is rigid with tension and it has been for days. 

"Once this day is over, we can start the beginning of their end." John comments wryly when he sees Roger fidget in the corner of his eye just as they break into the outskirts of London. 

Roger blinks out the window and watches the world go by. He dreads today as much as he had longed for it. 

He knows everyone will be there. The gang leaders, the prostitutes, other victims, drug dealers and other smaller men working under the crew. His mother will be there, their lawyers, the police; Officer Leonard and Larry Jones. Not all at once, no. But as the trial will continue, they will all come by and Roger will have to listen to people lying about his trauma.

"It will put an end to my misery." Roger grumbles, and then after a moments thought adds, "Plus an end to yours."

Roger looks up when John's hand lands on his knee and gives him a squeeze. His eyes are still fixed on the road when he speaks. "This has been a rollercoaster, but that doesn't mean I or the others will jump out midride. That's a safety hazard anyway," John snorts at his own analogy. "We'll ride it out with you and we'll see where we end up together."

"Do you have a good feeling about this?"

John hums, steering through the busy lanes now that they are driving into the heart of the city. 

"I know the police has a strong case, they would never take this up if they didn't have a strong case." He pauses, as if to think whether to say what is on his mind. Roger finds the hand on his knee to interlace their fingers together. When their palms are pressed against each other, Roger gives him an assuring squeeze, one that tells John that he can say what he wants. "I'm not sure how every individual will be tried. The crew will be dismanteled, that I think for certain, but I don't know if we will get a happy ending on everyone involved."

"You mean Richard?" Roger dares to ask. The name feels vile in his mouth, John pulls a face too.

"Richard, yes. That Kevin too, because he won't be tried with the crew. I don't know if the prositutes will get any justice at this rate. The police have a very set viewpoint on that. They are fighting for the law abiding citizens who were hurt by the crew, not necessarily people who got involved with them."

"Right..." 

Rogers eyes trail back to the world outside where the rows of houses with gardens and trees turn into shops and tall buildings. London feels like home, Roger thinks. He would hate to leave it if the trial really doesn't bring everyone to justice. London is energy, vibrant and lively. During his many years here, Roger still feels like he hasn't seen half of it. 

"I'd love to see more of London, when everything is normal again."

John glances sideways at him. "Yeah?"

"I've never been to Buckingham Palace." Roger comments, "Bet Freddie knows a good gay club too."

"I bet he does." John chuckles. "Once everything is settled and normal and I have a job again, I'll take you around town and we can do whatever you want. How does that sound?"

That sounds amazing, Roger thinks. He knows it won't be any time soon, but the thought of it makes him a little more calm before the trial and he finds himself relaxing due to the conversation. "I like that a lot. You'll even come if I force you to see a bad porn with me?"

"Even that I'll do. I'll go to the London zoo, an Irish pub, a B&B, the Big Ben, wherever you want to go Rog. However cliche, however old, I'll gladly do it with you."

"I'll keep you to that."

The tension that has been in their household the last few weeks zimmers down to lighthearted conversation and soft tunes on the radio. Sometimes Roger stands still to think about how he has ruined his boyfriend's lives, but today he doesn't. 

★☆★

It is only eight in the morning when they enter the courtroom after going through security. Their identity has been checked and they are each patted down in case they are carrying any knives or other items that could be used as a weapon.

When they are both cleared they move into the large room shoulder to shoulder. 

They aren't the first to arrive, but also not the last. The jury and judges boxes are empty, but Roger assumes they are on stand-by behind the wooden doors at the far front of the chamber. Officer Leonard and Larry Jones are seated at the prosecuter barrister with a stack of paperwork and enough coffee to last them the morning. 

Behind them, on the benches closest to Roger and John and closest to the door, are several rows of people dressed in identical grey sweaters with numbers sown on the breast. Roger's heart does a leap when he notices these individuals are handcuffed and accompanied by police officers.

They are members of the crew.

When John pushes Roger inside the room towards the gallery which is next to the press box, the men in prison uniforms turn around to glare at him. He feels their heated gazes burn into the back of his head. 

The fine hairs in his neck stand up and cold sweat breaks out over his body. 

Roger thinks he might sink through his knees if he meets any of their eyes. Instead, he keeps his shoulders strong and his head straight as John leads him across the hall wordlessly and finds them a front seat in the public gallery, which is where witnesses and visitors can watch the trial.

For most of the trial, Rogers presence won't be required. He is only obligated to show up on the days of his own hearing, but he had informed the court that he had wanted a seat for the whole process. 

However terrible this may be, Roger wants to keep an eye on the proceedings. 

"You'll be alright." Johns hip and thigh are pressed flush against Roger. They don't risk holding hands, not with others trailing into the courtroom and all the eyes Roger feels on himself. "Rog, you have to look at me."

Roger pries his eyes from his lap to John's. He fails miserably to keep himself together. He is nauseous and nervous and might throw up if his heartbeat doesn't slow down quickly. 

John's dark eyes pierce into his own. 

He takes a deep breath that make his chest rise and fall. Roger takes a lungful of air to follow him. 

"We don't have to be here." John murmurs for nobody else to hear. Only Roger. "We can leave at any moment, that's fine too."

Roger shakes his head at the suggestion. Being here makes his stomach drop. From the corner of his eye, he can see Andrei, Alan and even Gillian speaking quietly amongst themselves while awaiting the opening, just like them. The sight of them all together again, plotting and looking not half as terrified as they should be, makes Roger uncomfortable. 

"No," He keeps shaking his head. He must be looking slightly hysterical, because John puts a hand on his shoulder that is meant to soothe him. "No, I can't let them decide over all our fates when most of us can't even be here. My mum, Janice, and Imogen, they can't be here to defend themselves. I am the only one free and alive to oversee this."

He takes another shuddering breath. 

John squeezes his shoulder with an encouraging smile. 

"I need to see Richard."

" _Roger_ —"

"No, I mean," Roger huffs. He won't pull the same stunt he did weeks ago, trying to talk to Richard and beg for the closure he would never get. "I need to see him here, make sure he hasn't gotten into trouble yet."

John seems relieved by the answer, but still somewhat skeptical.

Roger deserves that after what he has put the others through these weeks, After putting everyone through hell and back. 

"It will be fine. Officer Leonard says he's been reporting to the police every week like he has been told to." It is a small consolation, but at least he hasn't tried to contact Roger, which was against his probation rules. The police had taken his passport to prevent him from leaving the country. Though Roger is certain Richard knows enough people to get false papers.

Roger exhales soundly through his nose. It is still surreal he is finally here, in an uncomfortable wooden bench in the courtroom to watch the crew go under. 

He had never dared to dream of this day, let alone imagine it.

The past few weeks he has simple been plagued by scenarios in which this would never happen. His mind came up with a ton of reasons for the case to be dismissed, for Roger to be arrested, for him to find his boyfriends dead in the country house, the evidence gets destroyed, the crown judge might have decided there wasn't enough evidence in the first place, the jury pleads the case as not-guilty before the start of trial. Etcetera. Etcetera. 

Yet today, against all odds, Roger is sitting in the courtroom in the public gallery, while in 99% of the alternative endings of his life, he would have sat in the defendants box, wedged between one-eyed Larry and Frank, because Roger hasn't been lucky in life overall. He finds it hard to believe his luck now. 

"Gentlemen,"

Roger and John simultaneously look up when their bench is approached by a smiling Officer Leonard. Trailing behind him comes Oliver with an even brighter smile and two cups of coffee extended to them. 

"Good to see you two here, looking very fresh for the start of the courthearings." Officer Leonard greets them. He steps aside for Oliver to give them the free coffee. "How are you two holding up?"

"Alright, if not a little anxious." John takes the coffee, "Thanks."

Roger also sips from the rim and inhales the sharp creamy aroma of caffeine the exact way he likes it. 

Officer Leonard nods. "That is only natural, though I promise you today as most days will be quite dull. Of course when witnesses take the stand, it gets interesting, but the first sessions aren't the most fun."

"I'm not here for fun." Roger reminds him cooly.

It is hard to give the cops a place within himself. He knows he owes them his life, to at least the extent of arresting the crew and giving Roger witness protection. 

On the other end, the police have failed Roger throughout his life and might still fail now. The rules they follow religiously are based on law, not morals. His mother shouldn't be in jail and neither should Janice be, while Richard is out on bail. The police have treated him like a criminal and if it weren't for the information Roger had given them, he would be considered just as bad as Alan, Richard, Gillian, Frank— all of them.

He doesn't trust the police and he doubts the police trusts him.

"Right, this is not easy." Officer Leonard concludes needlessly. 

Roger nods but keeps his mouth shut. 

After a moment passes between them, the policeman points his thumb at Larry Jones sitting alone just as the court clerk comes to sit in the small box in front of the judge's podium. "I'll have to go back, but try to relax. Nothing happens on the first day. Or even in the first week."

"Right, thank you."

"Thank you." John adds as well and together they watch Officer Leonard take off with Oliver hot on his heel. 

Roger lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. John glances sideways and smiles sadly. "However much I despise that man, he's right about today. You can relax."

A large clock is displayed out in front of the courtroom just behind the jury box. It reads nearly eight-thirty, which was starting time for the hearing, but despite having been told this timing is really strict, Roger sees no indication that they are starting already

After scanning through the defendants briefly, Roger grows weary again. 

"Richard isn't here."

"He'll come, he'd be in needless trouble if he didn't. It is only opening day, there is no reason he wouldn't."

Roger crunches his eyebrows together, growing increasingly more agitated with the passing minute. Each one ticking by agonizingly slow. 

But the time passes nonetheless. 

He and John finish their coffee in silence.

By the time the clock hits nine, the courtroom is filled with people, press and silence when the judge dressed in his dark gown and famous white pin curled wig strides into the room. 

Roger and John, now surrounded by many, watch the judge sits down at the far centre of the room with a solemn but just set to his old face.

Everyone holds their breath for him to speak the first words. 

Rogers's heart is still racing and his foam coffee cup is stained from his sweaty palms. 

If Richard is in attendance, Roger hasn't seen him arrive. 

Before the judge can get up to say anything, one of the security guards from outside walks calmly into the room. He pays nobody any mind on his way to the prosecutor box, where he leans over and whispers something to Officer Leonard, who in turn, looks wide-eyed before whispering the same back at Larry Jones. 

It all goes too fast to follow after that.

Larry Jones shoots up from his chair and flings himself across the room, straight to the judge. One of the suited men on the defence side of the benches follows hot on his heel to hear what is being said. 

The judge bends forward to hear the hushed words spoken between the two lawyers. His face changes from mildly annoyed to baffled, to complete disdain. 

The two lawyers exchange words too, Larry Jones glaring at the defendants' representation, but when the man shrugs and holds up his hands, first to Larry Jones and then the judge. Roger can't read lips, but those three words he recognizes. 'I don't know'. 

A sinking feeling in his chest overwhelms him. 

Instinctively Roger grasps blindly for Johns hand when Officer Leonard rises up and looks straight at Roger. 

Whatever that has transpired is no good. 

One single headshake tells Roger enough. John tenses beside him and the word leaves Rogers mouth before he releases what this truly means.

"Fuck."

★☆★

Roger bursts through the front door, followed by John hot on his heel. Freddie is waiting for them in the hallway but Roger manages to shoulder past him without getting caught up.

John is not so lucky. Freddie catches him by the arm and demands to know what is going on and why they are home so early. 

"He didn't show up."

There is no pause. Freddie swallows thickly. "What do you mean he didn't show up?!"

"It means exactly what I said," John, like Roger leans against the wall to start working his shoes off his feet. He is glowering, visibly upset. "He didn't show up, which is bail jumping and a crime. He'll get in a lot of trouble for that."

"That's hardly our biggest concern. We should worry about where he is... You suppose he is coming after us?" Freddie asks when he rushes to the front door to lock the three locks the police had installed already when they moved in. 

"I don't know. The police contacted Rogers grandmother, ordered her to stay inside with Clare. A car will be patrolling around the neighbourhood, make sure they are okay. They will phone our families too."

"Oh God."

John kicks his shoes to the side and wrestles himself out of his coat. Roger finds himself doing the same, but in a more robotic manner, his fingers are stiff and numb. His eyes are dry and flaky around the edges. He wants to scream, but his throat is clamped shut. He undresses and watches John approach Freddie with a set jaw. 

"We came straight here, the judge called court off for the day so the police could settle the matter and start searching. In the meantime, we have strict orders to stay inside."

"We already are."

"No, Fred. No more trips to the village, no more hospital visits, no car rides. We have to stay inside and have to stick to the rules. We can't afford Richard striking while we are doing something the police has adviced against."

"We will all go mad." Freddie mutters under his breath. 

It isn't meant to be heard by him, but a pang still shoots through Rogers heart when he does. 

Freddie lifts his eyes to Roger and his face drops instantly when he sees what the words have done, but before he can scramble for an excuse, Roger turns around and takes off in the opposite direction. 

★☆★

"Panic attacks feel an awful lot like heart attacks."

To Rogers surprise it is Brian who finds him what might be half an hour later. Or an hour. He lost track of time a while ago. 

His boyfriend lets out a straining groan when he lowers himself onto his butt. His back is turned to Roger, but he reaches around himself to offer comfort in touch. 

Roger extends his shaking hand to latch onto Brian.

He is curled up in a ball, underneath the bureau in the study room they only use for storage. It is the only room in the house without windows and Roger found that fact extremely comforting when Richard is plaguing him by being outside, somewhere. Possibly, likely, waiting to strike. 

Roger shuts his eyes against his own imagination. 

His breathing picks up again, overwhelming his already tight chest with a constant influx of oxygen mixed with too much dust. His heart is hammering against his ribs. He can't calm down. 

"You know, I used to have a lot of panic attacks when I was a child, but nobody ever understood what it was."

Brian speaks in his tender but melancholic voice that always brings Rogers mind to a lighter more bearable place. To acknowledge Brians words, Roger gives his larger hand a squeeze. Brian clutches back with the same desperation. 

"Except my mum, of course. She always knew exactly how to help me when nobody else did. Even my dad grew exasperated from the trips to the doctors, who all said I was fine, no heart attacks, no asthma." He chuckles and breathes in deeply. "It sucks feeling helpless in your own body, especially when you don't have anything medical going on really. But my mum, she would always make me sit up, two feet on the floor and head bowed forward. And then she would sit with me, breathe with me in silence, until I was okay again."

Brian shifts a little. Roger opens his eyes to see he has turned around and is ducking to look under the bureau. 

His eyes lit up when they meet Rogers. Roger can't smile back, he is numb and frightened. 

"What I want to say is that, I can sit here, in silence and hold your hand if you want. And I wanted to say that you don't have to be okay. I know I'm not."

"I'm not either." Roger clears his throat when his voice breaks. "I wish everything was okay, but it never is."

"Hm."

Roger uncurls in surprise when suddenly Brian rolls over and shuffles underneath the desk with Roger. He has to curl his knees to his chest to fir underneath and shifts until they lay facing each other on their sides. 

His ever prevailing smile makes it hard for Roger to stay stoic the way he is now. Even with his mind overrun with an abundance of emotions he can't place, but most overwhelming being guilt and fear. Brian leaves no room for more argument, especially not when he puts his warm palm on Rogers cheek to cup his face carefully close. 

"We love you. We love you so much that this situation is weighing on us too."

"I made your lives terribly difficult." Roger says quietly. "I know my situation isn't my fault, but your situation is my fault. I can't bear you guys realizing this one day and seeing what I see."

"What is it that you see?" Brian prompts gently. 

Their faces are one inch apart, Roger breathes the same air Brian does. It is dizzying in a comforting sense. He scoots closer into Brians body heat. 

"I see myself robbing you of the most vital years of your life. I fault myself from dragging you all into this. I should have been send off to Scotland after leaving the hospital. I should never have come to live with you all when we already knew Richard was after me."

Brians eyebrows knit together. He frowns, terribly handsome still when he does. 

"If you hadn't come home with us, we wouldn't have been together." Brian briefly closes the distance to brush his lips against Rogers. "I don't want to live in a scenario where we aren't together."

He knows Richard is after them. He can't be naive to really believe Brian wouldn't be resentful if his family got hurt because of Rogers connections to Richard. Same as Roger would never be able to forgive himself if Richard went after his little sister, or mother (who might be the safest right now, in prison). 

"If we wanted to, we could have left a long time ago, but we decided that this is what we wanted and that this is the battle we wanted to fight. We are nearly there."

"How can you say— Hm..."

Brian shuts him up with another brief kiss, one that Brian stops only to brush his thumb over the corner of Rogers lips. "Every police officer is looking for him now and they know who his targets are. He knows he is losing, otherwise he wouldn't have run."

"Or this was his game all along. He could try rebuilding the crew and then take me down."

"John told me the police is also guarding the main locations of the bull crew, even though they aren't operational anymore, it would be the obvious place for him to go."

Roger bites his lip. 

He finds it hard to believe this isn't part of a bigger scheme. Richard hates him and Richard had made clear last time they met that he blames Roger for what happened with the crew. 

He has wanted revenge for much longer than that, The fiasco at the hospital when he tried to break in had shown that Richard knew no limits at the time, but now, with all his bosses in jail and no rules to his cruel game, he is free to do as he pleases, especially if he has already accepted he will go under. 

"Don't look so grim. John said it is likely he ran for it, rather than to come here and try to kill you and I agree. It would make more sense for him to get as far away as possible."

"Well you don't know him." Roger grits out. "And I am tired of having to explain to you three that he is not a sane man. He is not thinking clear. What he'll do next might not be the smartest thing, it might just be the dumbest, but he doesn't care as long as he can make me suffer."

He feels a little ridiciouls, giving Brian a dressing down under the desk in the dark study while they are both on the floor. It may be ironic that he is calling Richard insane given his own position, but Roger does not care. 

Brian apparently doesn't either. He isn't phased by the burst of anger that comes from Roger, instead, he reaches around himself and fishes for something in his back pocket. 

"You are right, we don't know him and maybe we are weighing in more than we should given how little we know compared to you, so," He finds whatever he was looking for. 

Roger watches curiosuly as Brian handles the piece of papper and offers it up to him with a solemn smile. "We thought you might want to speak to someone else."

"What?" Wide-eyed, he takes the post-it from him and reads an unfamilar number. 

"I won't take full credit, Freddie was the one who begged the cops to send a letter to Dominique and to ask for his address, and she managed to secretly embed his phone number into the letter, but here it is." Brians smilde grows wider and he adds, "It's Crystals."

Rogers mouth goes slack in surprise. "Crystal?"

"Yes, Freddie wanted to give it to you after your first day at court, so you could have some cheering up, but he knows he might have messed up a little, so I'm the one giving it now. You really should thank him though, because— Whoa, alright!"

Brian chuckles when Roger forces him to roll out from underneath the bureau. With the phone number clutched between his hands, Roger first pushes his lips against Brians in the most sincerest thank you, before he leaps to his feet and dashes down the hallway and stairs to get to the home phone. 

His feet have never carreid him faster. A rush of good energy fills his senses and that too is overwehlming, almost too much for him to dial the number correctly in the phone system, with his hands shaking and vision blurry because he hadn't bothered with his glasses at all—

"Hello?"

Roger can barely breathe. He hadn't even been holding the phone to his ear in his haste to get to Crystal. He is smiling hard, when he says, "Crystal?" 

"No way in hell."

"Yes, actually. It's me."

Crystal takes a sharp inhale of breath, then he sighs. "Are you okay?"

"Not quite, really. Are you?"

"Got myself a small apartment here, working odd jobs at the mechanic shop here, until it's safe to come back, no drugs if you'd believe that. I show up to my meetings and all that. So I am doing suspiciously well... I read in the papers the court case is starting today." He pauses, then tentatively asks, "How did it go?"

Roger swallows thickly around the lump in his throat. 

"He got out on bail and then failed to show up in court."

"Oh fuck. That's— fuck."

"Right." Roger licks his lips. "I can't believe we haven't spoken for half a year. I— so much has happened. I don't know where to start, but today was, dreadful."

"You suppose he is on the run?"

"No, I think he might come to kill me. Or others close to me."

Unlike Brian, Freddie or John, Crystal sees no reason to pretend or talk sense into Roger for even suggesting something so terrible. While it is worst case scenario, Richard often is. 

He knows his boyfriends try to stay hopeful as much for their own sanity too.

"Are you being protected by the police? Dominique mentioned you were in a witness protection program. Will that help?"

"Maybe... Our address should be completely off the books and we have strict rules that should keep us from being detected by anyone. I suppose I won't go to any more court hearings until he is caught."

"That's fucking dreadful, Rog."

"I know." And he breathes, because it is dreadful indeed. To hear someone acknowledge just how dreadful it is, lightens the weight off of Rogers chest. Like his concern is shared evenly with another person. "I don't know what to do."

"Stay inside. Don't do anything stupid."

"You shouldn't come back until the end of the trial. That's the safest now, I think."

Roger imagines that cocky smile Crystal always wears. He closes his eyes and leans against the wall to recall all those days they spend in each others company alone. "Alright we'll make a deal, I'll stay put, if you stay put. Until the worst blows over."

"Alright." Roger agrees. "That sounds reasonable."

"Now that is settled, I'll hope the police catches that bastard before he does anything he might regret. Though I doubt he has any regret."

"No he doesn't." Roger huffs, and suddenly he remembers, "You know, he never did kill my mother."

" _What_?!"

"He sold her off to Alan, another boss in the crew. She was forced to work there as a packager and the police, they found her sleeping in the basement with others when they arrested everyone. She is in jail now too."

"Have you seen her? Are you sure it's her?"

"It's her, yes. Really. I visited while she was in the hospital. She was sickly and underfed."

"That's terrible, Roger. I am not sure whether to be happy for you or not. I feel sick to my stomach." Crystal admits in a serious tone, one he uses rarely. Roger appreciates it. 

He sighs into the receiver. The phone is heavy in his palm. "She had a baby in there. I don't want to think about it too much, but now I have a little sister."

"Your life is fucking crazy."

Roger grumbles in agreement. 

Then he adds, "I'm afraid he'll go after them. It makes me wish he would just come to me and get it over with."

For a long moment Crystal doesn't reply. All he does is breathe in the phone just like Roger does, only more obvious and strained, like he is trying to control himself. 

"I hope he is trying to escape judgement and run, but I can't count on that. He is after my family. I know it."

"He is a coward, going after a mother and her child. But then, that would be nothing new."

"No." Roger says. "That's why I'm scared."

It sounds like Crystal is lightening a cigarette. Suddenly Roger craves one too. He listens to him work the lighter and then hold it to the end of the cigarette, before he speaks in a slightly gruffer voice, "Richard is a fucking bastard. I should have bashed his brains in when I had the chance in the hospital."

Though the image is oddly comforting in a twisted fucked up way, Roger still shakes his head. 

"You'd be in jail."

"He'd be dead and you'd be free." Crystal grumbles. "Now I'm stuck in fucking Pittenweem while everything is happening in London."

"I'd rather have you be safe in some small town, than you being around these maniacs. That is the crew, Richard and the police. All of them are trying to screw me and my family over." 

"You better stay the fuck inside, Roger. I mean it. Have a weapon on you at all times. I don't want any bad news on the next phone call."

That makes Roger smile, despite everything else. He snorts. 

"Well this was a two way deal. I'll stay put, if you stay put."

"You and your damn technicalities... Fine. That's our deal." Crystal grumbles, sounding not as annoyed as the words might suggest. 

Roger knows this phone call is turning exceptionally expensive for the police, but he doesn't hang up yet, he is still basking in the pleasure of hearing his best friends voice after such a long time. 

"Are those boys treating you well?" Crystal asks then.

It is almost like he is whispering, like the answer might have to be kept secret. Roger, despite his insecurities and immense guilt, knows he is being treated very well. 

"They are fine, really. I get very worked up, but they stick with me."

"Oh you mean you have been a drama queen, but they brush it under the rug because they know you can't help it sometimes?" He is stiffling back laughter, Roger knows not to get offended when Crystal is joking. "Am I right or wrong?"

"The world isn't so black and white, you know." Roger says instead, which earns him a groan. 

"Yeah alright. You better be nice to them before I have to take your sorry-ass in when your dramatics become too tiresome."

Roger closes his mouth then, and asks, "What does that mean exactly?"

"It means, let them be there for you and stop wallowing in self-pity. We all know it isn't your fault. I have told you this a hundred times. How often have they told you?— See you can't answer that. Stop blaming yourself for everything and start accepting help."

Roger pushes his bottom lip out. Suddenly he wants to beg Freddie for forgiveness for storming off like he did. 

"I'm trying." He offers. 

Crystal snorts and this time he coughs on the presumed smoke that his cigarette has created. "I know."

★☆★ __

_"You need to stop coddling him."_

_"Harold, lower your tone will you?" Ruth closes the living room door with a huff and sends her husband an exasperated scowl. "I don't want to have him hear you speak like that."_

_The words seep into him like water into thin clothes, it makes his face turn pruney with disregard._

_He sinks into the comforting in his corner of the living room, where he has his own designated table, lamp, a stack of books and a footrest. With his shoes still on he leans back into the recliner and closes his eyes. He had returned home from work just in time to witness Brian storming up the stairs in a panicked haze. Similar to those he gets occasionally. Uneasy with the lack of manners, Harold had called after him, demanding Brian should greet him properly, but only to be told off by Ruth._

_On any usual day, the family functions perfectly fine, but it falls apart when Brians mood sours his fathers._

_"These things they need to stop and they won't if you enable him and pacify him when I point out his poor behaviour."_

_"He is but a teenager, he probably doesn't even know what put him off."_

_Harold reopens his eyes to send her a pointed look. "Which only proves my point. Children need guidance."_

_"They need to be allowed to work out their own feelings and have us comfort them through it."_

_"He is not a girl."_

_The words have barely passed Harlods gritted teeth when regret already starts to seep into his features. He pushes the back of his heel against his hollow eyes. Sometimes Ruth thinks she lives with two pubescents in the house._

_She clenches her hands into her skirt, because no matter how regretful Harold might feel, the words still leave a streak across her heart._

_When she finds her voice it is a bristle and soft thing that echoes the defeat she does feel, living between her favourite men in the world. She forces her face to relax into a neutral smile and she pushes her body away from the door in her faux bravado. Her hands smooth down her skirt. She is fine._

_"Right," She nods once at her husband. "That he is not. I'll go up and see how he is now. Dinner will be ready shortly after."_

_He turns his face away before she does. It is hardly a win, but Ruth is glad that there is no further argument other than a grunt of reluctant agreement. She can work with that._

_Nursing the tension that rests heavily on her chest. She twists around the exit the living room and climbs the stairs to the first floor._

_She strains to listen for any sound that might indicate where Brian might be._

_His own bedroom would be the first place to look were he not in such a state, but with how panicked he had gotten back home from his time spent outside, she doubts he would have put much thought in his hiding process._

_He had tried to explain it to her on multiple occasions. When he told her that he was having a heart attack of course called the ambulance and gotten in quite some trouble for making a false call. It was a good thing the panic attack had knocked Brian out cold for the rest of the day. Harold had fumed, being the one to pay the ambulance fine._

_Knowing the basics of Brians discomfort and physical reaction to this all-gripping terror didn't make Ruth equipped to understand truly what it is like for her son and that must pain him too._

_Eventually, after checking his room and finding it empty, as well as some of his usual hiding spots, she does find him in the bathroom, in the bathtub._

_It isn't on and he isn't undressed, but he is still obviously vulnerable curled up in foetal position._

_He is dressed still in his school uniform, which cannot be comfortably cramped in like that. His face is hidden against the porcelain. He breathes long and shallow breaths against the cold tub. His eyes are wide open, Ruth can see his eyes wet with tears between the unruly strands of hair that requires another prompt visit to the hairdresser before the school will complain again._

_Ruth lowers herself to her knees, not minding her skirt or the cold tiles beneath her knees much. She has endured worse for him._

_She leverages herself on the edge of the top with her elbows and rests her chin on her arm. The one that is not busy reaching out to rest on the wide-open space between Brians shifting shoulder blades._

_The first touch makes him tense up. But his mother's familiar touch makes it easy to settle into a normal rhythm again._

_"My Darling," Is all she says at first. She keeps her tone from sounding either overly emotional or too clipped._

_She doesn't know what has upset him and she doesn't want to add oil to the fire. Not when Harold has a heavy 'I told you so' waiting to be spoken out at the back of his throat. Not that it hasn't been there since Brian started to show any sorts of traits as a young child._

_Her thoughts always seem to drawl back to him as a baby when he gets like this._

_He is close to that sort of helplessness in a frightening way._

_Ruth doesn't know what to do for him, other than to be there. She hopes dearly that it doesn't add to the problem like Harold suggests, but that it does truly help her only child._

_"I can't breathe. Mum." Brian is shivering violently, like he is cold. Ruth would rip off her skin and bundle him in that if it meant keeping him warm._

_Instead what she does is reach around herself to grab one of their fluffier towels from the drying rack close to the tub. Once she manages to hold onto one she single-handedly drapes it across Brians trembling body and tucks him under it. While she is at it, she brushes her fingers through his hair, his skin is hot to touch, but with how rapidly he is breathing and his chest is rising, she imagines this must be quite the extrusion for the human body._

_Ruth keeps touching him, keeps breathing, soundly, with one hand on his back, guiding him to follow her._

_For the longest time, he doesn't and Ruth is nothing but another decor piece they inherited from grandma, or a fly on the wall watching Brian go by._

_But eventually, when enough time has passed for Brian to ride through the worst of his body's horrors, or the brain, Ruth is unsure who is most at blame here. But she is relieved when his breathing does even out after they have set there for a long while. Her knees are throbbing with pain from staying in this position and there is an uncomfortable creak in her neck, but even when her fingers cramp from numbness, she doesn't stop straining for her son._

_"Brian, my love, are you able to talk a little now?"_

_He nods jerkily. "A little."_

_A smile tugs at the corners of her lips even when he cannot see it. And she does smile. "Did something happen? Did someone say something nasty? Bully you?" She prompts in the kindest voice that she can muster. "Would you like to talk about ?"_

_She gets a firm headshake now. He usually doesn't, but part of her suspects these panic attacks tend to pop out of nowhere, so an explanation won't always be warranted._

_Respecting his decision to stay quiet, Ruth brushes her thumb over the closed curve of his lips. He is stoic and tense, despite the lack of energy._

_His gentle touches do the trick in the end, after a moment longer of coaxing strokes down his cheek and more rubbing between his shoulders, Brian's eyes do shut in exhaustion. He is breathing a little easier too, now that he isn't alone and in a state of complete panic. It makes for a good change._

_She shifts a little so that she can splay her legs out sideways and takes off her weight from her knees, for which they are grateful. The body doesn't quite age like fine wine._

_To keep herself busy she keeps playing with the strands of Brian's hair, or rub away the tears that still fall every now and then, from between the curtain of pretty dark lashes that so well define his skin and brown eyes._

_She did raise a beautiful child, she muses sweetly while assessing him. It doesn't matter really that sometimes he can't hold it all together anymore. Everyone has moments such as that._

_Maybe not quite so ever as Brian, but he's always been a sensitive child. Ruth has never seen anything wrong in that._

_So deep in her thoughts, she jumps when a hand touches her shoulder._

_Her panic is only brief, because it is the same hand that asked hers in marriage and she would recognize it anywhere. She relaxes and turns her head up to assess her husband._

_He keeps his mouth shut and doesn't spare Brian or his wife a second glance, before leaning in and taking Brian into his arms with surprising ease for his age and how often Ruth has heard his bones and joints groaning these days. But without as much as a hitch, Harold carries Brian out of the tub and into his arms. Brian is dozing contently, in his father's capable arms. The sight is almost too much for Ruth's heart to bear._

_"Where should I take him?"_

_"His bedroom I suppose." She exhales and uses the edge of the tub to get herself to her feet to follow the two men into the hallway. "I can heat up dinner for him when he wakes up."_

_"These... Things keep him quite exhausted." Though Harold's voice is short, Ruth knows he is genuinely concerned for their son, which is nice to witness._

_They walk to his bedroom together. Ruth opens the door so he can step inside with brian without having to jostle him much. She also pushes his blankets back to make room for him on the bed. This makes it easy for Harold to simply lower Brian and pull the blanket back on top of him, to his chin. Brian is oblivious to all the hard work and his slightly red-faced father. His eyes are closed and his skin is pale in a healing sleep._

_Once he is tucked in and content, Ruth makes her way over to her husband's side and curls her arm around his, giving him the praise he deserves for stepping past his own comfort zone._

_She looks up at him, seeing Brians exhaustion mirrored in his eyes, but more fond and carried with more dignity than her son could at his young age._

_In her heart she feels it so dearly, so she speaks the words while they are still in his bedroom and the moment is not yet broken._

_"I love you." She says, earnestly._

_Harold refuses to be taken aback. Ruth tells him she loves him plenty, but sometimes, they both know it is different in the way she says it and where the words have come from._

_He does pull himself together. He always does._

_He even leans in to kiss her on the lips, although briefly. "I love you too."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you are still reading and enjoying ☺️❤️


	39. Of Crimes and Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger has to deal with Richard jumping bail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the year of 39’ I will remind you of the tags. Please be mindful of the tags. We are nearly 300.000 words in! 
> 
> And this chapter is 15k. It’s my baby. This one is for all of you. Enjoy.
> 
> Please enjoy ❤️

"We know we have made exceptions in the past, but this is a very critical time."

Officer Leonard is not even looking at Roger. He is standing by the window, peaking behind the drawn curtain, as if to check that they aren't being watched. The tension that manifests in the old man's physical rigidness is also felt by Roger. 

He couldn't sit straighter in the chair that Larry Jones had pulled out for him in his office. 

Something has changed since Richard has left. 

Roger felt it, of course he did, but the police do too. He wouldn't have thought they would take the threat so serious, but they do. And their search for Richard is avid. 

Cold-blooded Larry Jones is pale in the face, Officer Leonard has too many jitters to sit still in a chair. Even now that he is standing up, his foot keeps tapping the carpet at a rapid pace that works up Roger's nerves. 

Suddenly the old man turns around. The critical expression on his face worries Roger even more. 

"No more breaking the rules of your witness protection program. They are law. You are not allowed out. You are not allowed to take calls unless it comes from us. No more hospital trips. No visiting jail to see your mother. Any communication with the outside world has to go through this office. You will have to lock windows and doors at all times when this is possible, and we recommend having a weapon on you. We assume you still have the swiss knife we gifted each of you, but make sure you carry it along with you." 

Roger narrows his eyes at the two of them.  
There is something they are not telling him.

"What do you know?"

"Nothing of your concern." Larry Jones replies in a quick, clipped tone that gives him away. Officer Leonard pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Roger, all too aware of who really runs the show here, turns fully to Officer Leonard and gives him a pointed look when he stops glaring at the ceiling in his own agony. 

"Well?"

"Did you not ask for our protection from him? He might pose as a threat now, we are aware he might want to take revenge."

He considers it, for a moment. He imagines that Larry Jones is worked up about Roger being endangered, and at once, the explanation doesn't make sense. "I don't see why _you_ would be so particularly worried about that."

"Maybe we don't want to lose one of our key witnesses."

"But it is more than that." Roger presses firmly, much to Officer Leonards chagrin. 

He huffs, long and hard. When he unlocks his knees, he rounds the table in a slow almost lazy fashion. He doesn't meet Rogers eye, suggesting he is using the time to think about what he to say. By the time he has rounded Larry Jones' desk and sits down on the edge, he still appears not to have made up his mind. 

Roger mirrors him in crossing his arms and leaning back, failing to appear tougher than he really is, showing the older man exactly how little his stance does for him. 

Officer Leonard picks up on it, and huffs. 

"There has been a legitimate concern that in his absence, he might try to rebuild the Bull Crew. One of the suspects has given us reason to be concerned over the possible activities he might be up to now that he has gone. Which includes your endangerment. We know very little about this man, we have raided all the possible Bull Crew locations, which leaves us to believe we have truly lost him. And with crew members speaking up about his... Deeds, his disappearance will be taken very seriously."

Roger thinks that if he shuts his jaw any harder, he will break a blood vessel. His left eye twitches uncontrollably. Looking like a loon is nowhere near as terrible as being one.

His fists curl into bawls in his lap when he asks, "Isn't that exactly what I warned you about?"

Officer Leonard stares him dead in the eye and unblinkingly says, "I don't recall."

"I told you not to let him out on bail. I told you he was dangerous. I told you he was important in the Crew, a key member in the Crew. Does that ring a bell?"

"No. I must say that it doesn't."

Roger gulps down the urge to stomp his bawled up fists into the Officers grimy face. It takes a lot of self-control, which he famously lacks. 

Officer Leonard reads his face and adds then, "Like we were saying, the rules on your witness protection have gone back to being as strict as originally indicated. No more rule-breaking and you are staying out of London, unless you are needed here at the station or as a witness in court. You will need the approval of any trip you make. We will minimize your transport and minimize the chances of anything happening to you."

"Has someone from the crew told you Richard is important in the hierarchy? Has one of them offered to rat the others out so now you have better evidence against him than my word?... Or is this about your own reputation? If he kills me, might your career be over when they find the records of me begging you not to let him off?" Roger asks abruptly then, because he knows there won't be another opportunity any time soon. 

Larry Jones puts his hands flat on his desk. Roger turns to him and catches his heated glare. 

"It's a slippery slope, Mr Taylor. Not everyone is willing to rat out their friends as you have."

"They were hardly my friends." He says. And his skin is sizzling from the blood boiling under the surface. He knows the heat is rising to his cheeks, looking flustered never helps in bringing his argument justice, but he doesn't bow down. "I told you Richard would be a problem, you didn't believe me and allowed the judge to give him the option to post bail. Now he is free and suddenly you are paying attention to him, because he is obviously more than a middle-man-drugs-dealer. Now my life is in danger, but it is your career that you are worrying about. I wish I was surprised. I wish I expected better, but I'm not. And I don't."

"If there is nothing else you wish to add, we have a new car waiting outside. The tank is full and you have two weeks worth of groceries in the back." Officer Leonard says smoothly. He gets up from the edge of the desk. Roger's legs follow automatically. 

They face each other off. Officer Leonard blindly hands Roger the car keys of the new car. His dead eyes are blank. Like an unwritten piece of paper. 

Roger is so deeply disgusted he struggles not to physically gag at the sight of him. 

"Anything else?"

"If anything happens to me, my partners, my sister or my mother, it is your fault. One-hundred percent on you."

Nothing in his expression changes, not a single muscle twitches. Roger has to accept it as it is, nothing moves a man cool as him. 

"That will be all then," Officer Leonard clasps his hands together and breaks the tense spell that had been casted over the office. He stretches out his arm, showing Roger the door. "We will let you know when you are needed in court. Otherwise, no transport. No groceries. No far walks. Nothing of the sorts."

As he backs out of the room, Roger grips the keys in his hand so hard that they leave little dents in his palm the whole drive home. 

★☆★

Forced isolation might be the most dreadul thing that's ever happened to Roger-- that is after everything he went through in his childhood or with Richard.

He doesn't mind sitting at home, spending the day in his pajamas, in bed or on the couch, reading quietly or making music. In fact, he loves it. After the horrible time he has had living in Richards pocket, being out in the country with fresh air, clean clothes, good company and an abundance of entertainment, this is exactly how he imagines heaven to be. 

Well, if the other participants of his heaven didn't experience it like hell. 

What Roger hates about this situation is that every day, the light in his boyfriends eyes grows duller. And their lust of life grows thinner than their patience. 

Roger might be enjoying the long mornings in bed, the hours of quiet time and cuddling in the blissful silence, ears open for any possible intruders, senses on high alert. But his boyfriends are going crazy.

They try to hide it from him. They don't want to make him feel guilty because it is his fault they are in this situation.

He doesn't tell them that of course. They would give him the same old line of it being Richards fault, not Rogers. But Roger has heard that one enough to grow numb for it. 

"Hey."

There is no easy way to take their attention from being bored, not with a conventional method. 

They look up at him, All three of their heads turn to him in the same lazy drag that seems to take forever. They are really through it. Roger can see it in the slump of Brians shoulders, the bags under Freddie's eyes and the washed out whiteness in Johns face. 

He forces his worries down and brings the smile to his face they all need.

He is leaning against the doorpost as casually as he can, trying not to shift too much. 

"I've lost something." He announces to all three of them, who at once lose interest as fast as it came. A tough crowd indeed. Roger is losing him. 

He clasps his hands behind his back and blinks heavily. His stomach flutters with butterflies. 

With his best puppy eyes, he asks, "Will you guys help me look?" 

A moment of stunned silence hangs heavy in the room when none of his boyfriends make a move. Growing exasperated, Roger huffs a lock of hair out of his eyes and throws his arm over his shoulder in a gesture that directs them to follow him. 

"Come on then."

He hears a sigh, John. But also sees Freddie and Brian meet each other's eyes across the room before promptly getting out of their seats to follow Roger into the hallway. 

When confident that the others are trailing behind him at their own pace, Roger leads them up the stairs and then, into the bedroom. He tries not to wince on every step his bare feet make climbing onto the wooden planks. 

The toy inside of him shifts deliciously every time he clenches around it accidentally. He hopes, despite having to bite his lip to keep quiet, that the others won't notice.

Roger makes it through the doorway first. 

He crawls onto the bed, he has to push his hair out of his flushed face to see his boyfriends enter the room after him apprehensively. Some more amused than others. 

He sits back on his arms and, when finally they have all looked around confusedly and come to the conclusion something odd is going on, Roger spreads his legs, revealing that underneath his sleep shirt that he wasn't wearing any underwear. 

His eyes are on Brian, perhaps because he is the tallest, or because he is standing in the middle. Consequentially, Brian's eyes are on him too. Or more specifically, between Roger's legs. 

He inhales sharply and watches intently how Roger puts his feet flat on the floor with his legs now spread obscenely. 

Without missing a beat, Roger blinks heavily at them through the fan of his eyelashes, and he asks in a hushed tone, "Will you guys help me find what I lost?"

"Fuck." Brian swallows thickly. It is unimaginably erotic how his Adams Apple bops beneath the thin skin of his neck. "What does that mean?... Exactly?"

Roger can't help the grin that spreads across his face. 

He had thought that maybe he would feel intimidated, he had fretted over that the whole time while setting up his little scheme, being submissive to all three of them at once puts him in a particularly vulnerable position. But now, sitting alone on the bed while the others are staring down at him in raw admiration, Roger finds his heartbeat working steadily in his chest and his cock stirring under the positive attention. He knows that if at any point his feelings turn, they will respect him enough to stop. Even if he was the one who egged them on. 

He tells himself exactly that, all in one breath, and then unblinkingly lifts up the edge of his sleepshirt, slowly and in the most teasing manner that reveals first more white skin on his thighs, and then the soft fabric brushes against his groin, cock and the sensitive skin beneath his naval. 

"Come have a look. See if you can find it?"

Roger then confidently climbs up on the bed, making sure that the whole time they don't get a full view of his ass, only his front. He climbs on his hands and knees, doggy style, and looks at them expectedly with his shirt hanging off of him loosely. 

He looks at Brian in particular, still. He tries to keep himself from grinning like a loon, but this is the first time in days he has gotten all three of his boyfriends alert and thrilled. 

It only takes one look from Roger and a nudge from John for Brian to be set into motion and circle the bed to get on behind Roger. 

When he does, Roger is delighted to hear the sharp intake of breath, followed by a muttered curse.

"Roger..."

Roger pushes his ass out. It is exposed now with he shirt sliding down to his chest. He bites on the bottom of his lip teasingly when he turns around as much as his body allows, "Did you find it?" He asks in the most innocent voice he can muster. 

Brian daringly leans forward to lay his hand on Rogers bare cheek. He pushes it out, spreading his cheeks to examine the toy lodged neatly in between. 

Having his warm hands on his behind sets Rogers skin ablaze. He feels hot, exposed and aroused all over. 

Freddie and John are watching him and Brian, eager and also visibly growing hard in their trousers. 

"What can you see Brian? Can you describe it for us." 

John is taking initiative now in a somewhat strained voice. Pride swells in Rogers chest knowing he was the one who worked him up like that. 

He can't twists his neck around enough to read the expression on Brians face, but he can still feel his hand palming his ass, groping him, desperate and eager. Roger feels wanted, more than anything else. He feels it in his boyfriends burning gazes and in the way Brian touches him, admiration and fondess far overtake lust and any other emotion Roger might have associated negatively with his past.

He can safely close his eyes and still feel the love radiate from the three of them.

Brian spreads his cheeks wide and swallows thickly. Roger clenches around the toy, he feels the wide girth stretch his isnides deliciously. His toes curl into the bedding with lust and he can't help the gasp that escapes his parted lips when Brian takes a hold of the base that sticks out of him. 

"He is using your dildo, Fred." Brian mutters, until he remembers to speak up. "The purple one. With the, uh, diamond plug at the end."

"Excellent, thank you Brian." John knows exactly what the praise does to Brian and to all of them. 

Roger reopens his eyes in time to see John wip his cock out of his pajama bottoms. It is hot and heavy in his palm, already hard and begging to be lapped clean. 

"Did he stretch himself open nice and well?" John continues in the same hushed tone. 

Freddie is also affected immensely. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, once it falls to the floor, he starts stroking his already hardened nipples. Gently gracing his thumb and index finger over them, making them even more erect. He bites his lip to keep himself from moaning obscenely, but to Roger it is already clear how far gone Freddie is. 

Brian is moving behind him, the plug is still in his hand, and he doesn't do anything but give the slightest tug to the base that causes Rogers hole to flutter around the toy. 

He moans helplessly. Feeling both full and too empty. 

"It's nice and snug." Brian breathes. He keeps playing with the end, giving it another experimental tug and feeling Rogers body move with him, trying to keep the toy inside himself. "He is perfect."

"We can tell that from here as well." John grins.

His teasing tone almost masks the deserpate hunger in his dark rimmed eyes. 

He turns to Freddie and gives him the slightest nudge towards the bed when he sees how far gone he already is, playing with his nipples like his life depends on it. Maybe it does. He opens his eyes when his legs are set into action, looking at John lazily through hooded eyes without once stopping stimulating his pebbled nipples.

"Freddie, why don't you keep playing with yourself, while Roger helps you get off? Would you like that Rog?"

Freddie is stepping close to him. his cock is obviously swollen and eager in his underwear. Rogers mouth waters at the sight. So he nods, twice, even though it is hard to give a coherent answer with Brians hands on his ass. 

"Please."

"He said please, Fred. He asked politely."

Freddie grins and stops touching his nipples just long enough to push his trousers and underwear down his thighs in one swift motion. 

His cock bops up when it is freed from Freddie's oppressive clothes. 

Roger drags his eyes away from his throbbing meat, up at stare longingly at him instead. 

Freddie groans when their eyes meet and his hands shoot back to his nipples to pinch them. He moves his hips closer, his cock swings in front of Rogers eyes. "This okay?"

"Yes." Roger breathes and he reaches out to angle Freddie's cock towards his parted lips. He closes his lips together to give him a light kiss on the red, wet tip. "Yes I'm okay."

"Fuck—" Freddie groans when Roger swallows him halfway down without a hitch. He is by now a comfortable and familiar weight in Rogers mouth.

He drools around the delicious length, allowing the vibrations of his throats to pleasure Freddie. 

The whole time, Brian is still playing lightly with the toy inside of him, the one Roger stole from Freddie's secret stash. 

At some point, John has rounded the bed, because Roger feels a second pair of hands on his back, touching him and reminding him to breathe and that he is doing well. He gets lost in the combination of sensations, feeling Freddie inside of him and Brian loosening his hole more and more, now the toy begins to slide, slippery still from the amount of lube Roger had used to comfortably stretch himself. 

"He is nice and tight isn't he, Bri?"

"Yes."

Rogers eyes roll closed and he tries to focus more on Freddie than the dirty talking that sends hot sparks down to his already rock hard cock. 

"Roger is being so good for us, isn't he? He just hated to see us bored. So he gave us a challenge."

"Right." Brian sounds a little breathless. Roger imagines John might be teasing Brian by kissing down his throat and his shoulder, where he is oversensitive. Brian makes the softest whining sounds that leaves everyone a little lightheaded. "He did."

"He did indeed, now I will give you a challenge."

Roger wishes he could look, but he is kept occupied both by Freddie rutting deeper down his throat almost deserpately uncontrollable. 

Luckily, John is more than aware of Rogers restrained vision and vocalizes everything. 

"Keep playing with Roger like that, keep it up and make him cum just like that. But here comes the challenging part, while you do it you must also bring me to orgasm."

"At the same time?"

"You have two hands don't you?"

Roger and Brian moan in unison. Then Freddie follows, due to the sensation it sends down his leaking cock. Roger can't even complain about the bitterness on his tongue, he's never cared when it is fro his boyfriends. He continues to swallow heartedly around Freddie's impressive length.

Freddie is groaning and grunting when he is being particularly good. 

Behind him, Brian is settling on his knees on the bed and settles flush against Rogers backside. 

Roger chockes when Brian lodges the dildo free from his ass, pulling it all the way out until only the tip remains, then he pushes back inside, giving Roger the sensation of a slow, lazy fuck by a careful and tender lover. 

The sensatin is maddening. The slow and tight drag of the toy against his velvet insides is erotic and stimulates every last nerve inside of him. 

"That's a good boy, keep touching us, but don't go too fast on Roger, he likes it easy, don't you baby?"

Roger can imagine Brian desperately juggling the dildo in one hand and Johns cock in the other. He can't help but whine around Freddie, more than pleased that his little plan had worked out perfectly. 

He has all three of them together, happy and carefree. 

At some point, Roger has no idea how much later, his mind has gone blissfully blank in ectacy between the two best sensations in the world, trapped between his boyfriends warm and protecting bodies. Freddie brings him back to the world by cupping Rogers cheeps between his soft but firm palms. 

He angles Rogers chin up, making him look up, forcing their eyes to meet.

Roger moans helplessly around his cock, slurping desperately when drool accumulates and Freddie is too big to swallow all the way down. 

Freddie shushes him, pets his hair, and speeds up his thursts, just slightly.

Roger relaxes his throat and eases the way for Freddie, lost in his loving and caring touches to do anything else.

Behind him, his prostate is being brushed with every short push of the dildo. Brian isn't pulling it all the way out anymore, just thrustinf deeper and shallower. It gives him better leverage to keep a rhythm going.

Roger grounds his knees on the bed and pushes his ass back against Brian, wiggling for more.

"Brian, I think Roger is really close."

Rogers cock is painfully hard between the bed and his body. He is drooling cum almost in a continuous stream. He feels light-headed, almost to the point of blacking out in the most delicious sense of the world. Which is why he is grateful Freddie has taken the reigns and relieved him from doing anything but keeping his mouth open and letting his lips be used as a passage to please. 

It is almost too soon when Brian thrusts the dildo into him particularly well angled, giving Rogers prostate exactly what it needs to sing and pulse, send hot sparks to the rest of Roger's nerves through his whole body, until stars explode behind his eyes.

He hadn't even realized how close he was, not with how fixated he was on keeping his boyfriends occupied, he only notices he's cumming when his cock pulsates and cum comes shooting out of him, onto the bed.

Rogers body catches him by surprise, but at least Freddie saw it coming.

He holds Roger perfectly still while Roger's eyes roll back and his muscles tense up as his body releases. He continues to thrust into him, while Roger makes a conscious effort to keep swallowing around him.

He is glad that before even his cock is done spilling, hot seed shoots out of Freddie's cock and he unloads himself inside of Roger.

It's erotic how Freddie keeps rutting his hips into Roger's face. He is in for the ride, while feeling overstimulated, having Brian still fucking the toy in and out of him at the same rhythm as he is jerking John off.

"Look at you pretty boys, such beautiful men. Brian, how beautiful is Roger? Look how he clenches around the toy, do you see that?"

"Y-yes."

And Brian sounds as desperate as Roger feels, gurgling around Freddie's softening cock while his sensitive hole is still being fucked, long after his cock has emptied itself all over their bedding. 

"Brian, if you don't cum right now, I'll have you gag on Rogers plug for the rest of the day. Cum for me, be a good boy and cum."

A whine, almost a whimper escapes behind him. 

Freddie is staring at Brian and John, but Roger can only stare at him with how he is still holding Roger's face. Holding it still with his cock hanging limply between his warm lips. 

Roger knows Brian has cum when John had demanded it, not only because of the whimpers that always give him away, whimpers combined with Johns name in a moaning mantra, but he can feel the warm ropes of cum his behind, painting him. Rogers cock jerks at the sensation, so incredibly filthy that he is afraid he'll grow hard again. 

"That's a good boy, Brian. So good for us."

"He's done good, all of you have, hm." Freddie says in a soft, well-satisfied tone. Roger blinks up at him, trying to blink away the haze in front of his eyes, which is easier now that Brian has stopped pumping the dildo. 

Freddie makes a gesture with his hand, beckoning John closer. 

They start to kiss over Roger's head. Roger is dizzy trying to keep up. 

Freddie is now completely soft and Roger is too afraid to move in case he gets overstimulated. Brian has finished cumming, his seed starting to cool and stick to Rogers behind.

"Deacky, wanna see you cum all over Roger too." Freddie whispers. "Wanna rub your cum all over his skin."

Rogers cock twitches pathetically between his legs. Arousal stirs in his belly.

John likes it too, apparently. His panting is starting to pick up again, which had stopped when Brian had been too busy orgasming to jerk John to his own release. 

Freddie is whispering encouragement, stroking Johns cock and fondling his heavy balls. He is efficient and tender at once, giving John the sweet relief he deserves as much as they all do. 

Roger closes his eyes again, waiting, excited. His entire body shivers with anticipation when he hears Johns breathing speed up.

He waits patiently, shivering, until finally Johns grunts grow pitchier and he finds his release finally.

In thick ropes, he cums all over Rogers back, alongside Brians cum painting a pretty picture on Rogers ass and lower back. 

Freddie keeps stroking John, milking him empty until the final drop.

"Fred— fuck. T-that's all."

"Roger deserves every last droplet of you, darling. He looks so pretty. Don't you, love? Don't you look pretty?"

Freddie knows full well that Roger can't speak with Freddie's cock in his mouth. Freddie is grinning, in a fond and loving way. He bends forward and uses flat palm to rub both John and Brians seed into the flexing skin of his back. 

Roger doesn't think he's ever thought of being owned by someone as something positive, but here, now, feeling so beloved and understood, he doesn't necessarily mind being theirs.

"There it is, that's very pretty."

"Freddie that mind of yours." John chuckles, sounding breathless. A moment passes by and suddenly Roger is jolted when another body hits the mattress beside him.

He finds out that it is Brian when Freddie finally allows his cock to withdraw from the warmth of Roger's mouth.

They both mourn the loss for the moment, but Roger is soon distracted by Brian, who wraps an arm around his waist and forces Roger to roll onto his side for a cuddle. There is not a care in the world for all the cum he drags around the bedding and Brians arm. 

He closes his eyes and breathes against Brian's shoulder, inhaling his sweet familiar scent. 

"You are really naughty, y'know." Brian pants, and then chuckles when Roger nibbles his shoulder playfully. Where his skin is extra sensitive. "Bastard."

Roger curls one foot around Brian's ankle. Feeling warm and fussy. 

His mind is blissfully blank. He doesn't have to think, with the curtains closed, windows and doors locked, wedged between his boyfriends and their emergency knives on the dresser, he knows he is perfectly safe. Safer than anywhere else. 

Brians arm curls around him protectively, holding him closer. His lips grace over Rogers brow almost hesitantly. "Thank you."

Roger smiles, self-satisfied and they should know it. "You're welcome— Can't say it wasn't a little self-indulgent."

"A good distraction nonetheless." Comes in the third voice, which Roger instantly recognizes even with his eyes shut. He blinks into the light just in time to see John flopping onto the bed onto Brians other side. "You know how to surprise us."

"I still got a few tricks up my sleeve." Roger smiles, and he props himself up on his elbow to check where Freddie is.

He finds him across the room, folding their clothes to the bathroom, and then coming back with a wet washcloth. Without a word, Roger rolls onto his belly to give Freddie excess before he starts approaching the bed. The mattress dips on Rogers side, before he feels the pleasantly warm cloth drag across his cum-stained skin. 

"Such a pity to wash this away, but wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable."

"You are so very thoughtful." Roger yawns, growing tired now that he is a boneless mess of boyfriends and light thoughts.

He thinks not about Richard, or the court hearing he is forced to miss out on right now. He thinks not about where Richard might be or why he ran. If he is after Roger, his freedom or to rebuild the crew. None of which are options Roger wants to consider in his post-orgasm bliss. 

Freddie cleans him up slowly, never in a hurry when he is performing the aftercare. Roger's eyes flutter shut against Brian's arm. He finds himself a nook between his chest and under his chin, the only place where Brian isn't painfully pointy. There is conversation going on around them, which to his relieved is no longer clipped with stress and boredom, but quiet and mellow. 

John asks what they are having for dinner.

Freddie offers to make one of his mothers meals, but John refuses, saying he asked before he wanted to treat them, Roger can't see Freddie's face, but he knows his boyfriend is smiling. Always easily flattered. 

"You think we should put a timer on? So I wake up on time to cook."

"We won't nap that long." Freddie protests. And when he is finally done cleaning Roger, puts the cloth to the side, before cuddling against Rogers side eagerly for heat. They had fallen asleep on the sheets with no intent on moving. They will have to keep each other warm during their nap.

Roger slings his free leg between Freddie's. Offering more closeness than he knew he had to give.

If he could he would give Freddie and Brian and Johne very corner of himself, every nook of his body. Nothing he needed that he didn't want to share with them.

He falls asleep, knowing with his full and entire heart that he loves them.

For the first time in weeks, there is no guilt, there is no second-guessing or arguing.

They fall asleep almost immediately after. Roger waits until Freddie has gone to sleep, and then Brians breath evening out before he allows himself to slip into darkness. He never waits for John, knowing John is waiting for him and better at staying up than him. He knows it wouldn't be worth battling over.

"Thank you, Rog."

Roger manages to drag himself to the conscious world only just enough to answer John, who had whispered to him from across the bed. 

"H'm welcome. Love yuh."

He doesn't know what else he says afterwards. He is already asleep when John replies something equally sappy. Roger takes the words into his heart and uses them to pay the passage to sweet and comfortable dreams. 

★☆★

They keep track of the court case by regular calls from the police station and the bits that are mentioned in the papers by occasion. 

With time it becomes clear that there is no way around the fact that the suspects were indeed involved in criminal activities and there was indeed such a thing as the Bull Crew wreacking havoc across London and beyond. 

What the lawyers are now arguing over is the extend of each individuals part in the criminal scheme.

None of them have readily confessed, which leaves the police with the burden of using the evidence they found during the raids against the defendants and occasionally, filling up gaps with witness statements.

People like One-Eyed Larry are a done deal.

He has been seen dealing drugs by many and his payments from the Crew have been heavily documented. These payments being prostitutes rather than money in exchange for said dealing. Two birds with one stone.

Others are harder to determine. 

Gillian is widely known as the mastermind behind the whole operation, but to his credit, his role has never been well documented. 

He is not often seen in public, let alone with prostitutes and or obvious criminals.

Pinning the whole role of the leader on him will be a tough job for the officers. Most of their evidence comes from witness statements and the fact that Gillian has a luxurious apartment above the general archive of the crews business. Also found in his apartment was a large vault in which stacks of money have been hidden away. 

The focus has shifted on the men higher in the hierarchy, rather than the tenfold of prostitutes who were also called forward to be sentenced. Most confessed to the crimes, which reduces their sentence and also gives their testimonies about the men more credibility. Janice was amongst them, and after only appearing in court once, she was given a short prison sentence that likely won't outlast for the duration of the trial itself. 

Roger prays that on the day his mother has her hearing, they will have mercy for her case too, but that might be wishful thinking. 

She had been kept captured under Alans branch, drug packaging. They have already sketched a grim look of Alan and his work place in the court room. His work is very reliant on documentation, numbers of kilos in which the drugs came, numbers of boxes, numbers of substances to mix the drugs with, numbers on what portions to package them in, numbers on how much to sell packages for— which means a lot of evidence is stacked against him. 

His mothers lawyer will use the circumstances under which Alans workers lived as a reason why the court and jury must recognize why the workers, like Winnifred, were not coconspirators, but victims.

Alans case will be brought up in only a couple of weeks. Roger has been dreadfully nervous for the upcoming day, but not quite as nervous for what is to come the following Tuesday. 

He will be asked to come to court to read his statement and answer questions before the jury. 

There is a lot of preparation that comes before this. Roger spends days rehearsing his lines with Freddie and then with the police at the station. A lot depends on his testimony, Roger knows. Otherwise Officer Leonard would not be personally sitting opposite to Roger coaching him on how to answer the questions in the most suitable way. Usually they have a witness care officer for that, but the stakes seem too high to give Roger a more suited person to deal with victims, instead they focus on extracting the most out of him. 

Sessions with Officer Leonard are exhausting, especially because he schedules to start at the break of dawn, when there are less people in the station and Roger is less likely to be spotted with his car rather than in broad daylight. In these draining but begrudgingly admittedly useful sessions, Roger learns how to talk properly and what cue words to look out for, to know when he is being tricked by the defendants lawyer.

"If they wish to cross-examine you, they will try anything within their power to discredit you as a witness." Half the time Officer Leonard isn't even sitting down. He is pacing, red in the face with sorrow and exercise. "Don't fall for it and don't take any bait."

"Alright."

"No, not alright. I have seen you blow up at me for accusing you of crimes to which you have admitted to commit. They will bring it up and they will smear you if given the opportunity, Roger. I need you to be able to control yourself even when they call you a prostitute, when they question if you did consent to what has been done to you or not. They will bring it up if they know they can fluster and discredit you in front of the jury, are you ready for that?"

His small eyes are intensely dark. Before answering his question, Roger remembers the techniques he has just learned and applies them. He wriggles his toes in his shoes, rather than any part of his body that Officer Leonard might take notice off. He forces his shoulders to stay relaxed to give the impression of total calm. 

"I am." Roger says firmly. "I am ready."

"This will be crucial in setting up your case against Richard. You will have to answer a lot of questions and they will wonder why you are one to point fingers, given your history. What do you say to that?"

"I will say that, no matter my history, I couldn't see them continue exploiting people like me. I couldn't allow them to keep smuggling drugs into the poorest neighbourhoods, offering it to the most vulnerable of all people. I couldn't keep waiting for the next shooting to happen before I told the police everything I knew to get these people off the streets and locked away for the safety of not only myself, but for the community in which we live."

Roger is barely done speaking when the lines of Officer Leonards forehead visibly relax. He nods, curtly, once Roger finishes. 

He puts his hands on the back of his chair, the one opposite to Roger, in which he has yet to sit in. 

In the dim lightening he looks less old than he is, more chique aging like James Bond in his golden years. Giving Roger the illusion this is a decent man.

"I think you are getting there."

Roger quirks up an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. "Getting there?"

"I know you. They bring up the rape, you'll say something contradictory. Something that will confuse the jury." Before Roger can protest, he holds up his hand in calm dismissal. "I recommend keeping it out altogether. You will not get him on rape or sexual abuse, I'm sorry. Not if you confess to being a homosexual, which they will ask and you are a poor liar. Not if you confess to being a drug addict who stayed with him for years and years, knowing full well what he did for a living. I have never heard of a successful case in which such things are mentioned by the alleged victim. Focus on what is important, getting that bastard in jail. Don't mention the sexual abuse or relationship and pray that they don't, because they will also face some problems concerning your age at the time if they do."

Roger presses his teeth together and locks his jaw painfully hard. He hates it. Knowing he won't even be able to bring up how Richard treated him for all those years. 

"We will shed light on the forced prostitution angle, but more prominently, we will focus on how he ran the prostitution and drug operation from his own home. We have evidence by witness statements on how he was the boss there and the documented state that house was in when we found it. We have documents of the prostitutes that lived there and worked from there. We have documents on the drugs that came through that house and distrubted elsewhere. Now all we need to do is pin the apartment and the leading of this branch on him. Do you understand?"

Roger nods again, but more slowly this time. His entire body is too stiff to do anything else. 

Officer Leonard looks one heartbeat away from a total meltdown and pulls on the grey strands of hair that are already sticking out in every direction from having pulled on it previously. "Roger, I am deadly serious. Our focus is on proving that Richard truly was the one leading the branch. Everything else will confuse the jury, make them less likely to believe you."

"How does any of this matter if you don't even know where Richard is?"

The vein on Leonards temple is a single pulse away from popping. Roger stares at it in mild terror, hoping no fluids would make it all the way to him. 

Officer Leonard grips his hair a little harder.

"We have started an extensive search for him. We will find him. When we find him, your statement will help put him behind bars for up to fourteen years for drug dealing alone. If we add prostitution to that, he won't be seeing much daylight for two decades."

Twenty years.

Roger stares blankly at the officer from across the empty space between them. He thinks about the lives lost, how his little sister was born in a cold concrete basement, how Roger slept under a dirty rug in the shivering winters without central heating and how Imogens last moments were spent bleeding out on the cold grey pavement along Menom Road. He thinks about twenty years, which is less than the time Roger has been alive. He is baffled. Somehow he had thought that once Richard was caught, he would never see daylight again for violating his bail.

He can barely say the words, they seem stuck in his throat like glue has replaced his saliva and the letters have gotten stuck to it. 

He glares up at Officer Leonard, whose face grows even stiffer when he realizes Roger has gone rigid in his seat. 

"That is it?" he spits out eventually, when the words have battled their way through. "Twenty years?"

"Twenty years is a decent amount of time for the crimes we will prosecute him for, according to the laws of this country." Officer Leonard offers stiffly. "Twenty years of a mans life is not a joke."

"And the five years of a childs, filled with rape, addiction and horror is?"

Tired of the conversation, Roger pushes himself back onto his feet and plants himself firmly onto the floor, even when he is visibly shaking. 

He hates this man in front of him. In his uniform and with the proud little tilt of his chin, Roger despises him more than any of the other police skipping around him all day. He thinks sometimes, odd times, that he should be grateful for Officer Leonard, but then he remembers this man has nothing to lose, while Roger, has everything on the line. Something they both seem all too aware of. 

"I am leaving."

"We will have at least one more session before your testimony to get this down. No more outbursts. I mean it." 

Roger scoffs and glances at the clock on the wall before he grabs his coat off the hook. They have been going over Rogers statement for over three hours and the time is nearing seven a.m. 

Officer Leonard is already holding the door open for him when Roger brushes past him to get away from this hellhole as fast as possible. On his way to the exit Roger passes the handful of officers who have a nightshift, they make no comment when they see him, and Roger doesn't see why they should. 

Despite knowing his presence is not wanted, Officer Leonard does trail after Roger, plucking around in his pockets for Rogers new car keys, which he hands over stiffly. 

Roger makes sure their hands don't touch, not even briefly. He grasps the cold keys between his fingers, before turning on his heel towards the exit that leads right into the back of the parking lot. He does not want to see this old face for a long time, at least until a good nights sleep and some boyfriend time before he can handle more of his bigotry. But yet despite his wishes, Officer Leonard follows him to the car, much to Rogers chagrin and watches Roger intently as he unlocks it and climbs inside the new vehicle. 

When Roger is about to close the door behind him, Officer Leonard puts his hand between the door. Roger has to muster all of his willpower not to slam it shut anyway. 

"Yes?"

"If you can control your temper, I promise you I will do anything within my power to get him locked away so you can live your life in peace." Officer Leonard lowers his eyes to the rain-slick asphalt covering the parking lot. Conflict plays in his eyes, and Roger is surprised to find sympathy in his dark pupils. "And whatever you may think of me, I only want justice too. Else I wouldn't have wasted my morning— hell my life like this."

Roger gives him a hard look. He doesn't think he can really trust him. 

"Got it." He says instead of arguing. He doesn't want to argue this late. Otherwise he won't be home until 9 a.m.

He puts the key into the ignition and turns it, the motor starts to hum and Roger leans back into his seat. "I must go now, the others are waiting for me."

"Alright, same time Thursday, don't be late." 

He slams the top of the rooftop after closing the door with a firm hand, as if to give Roger permission to drive off now. Roger swallows down the annoyance so he can concentrate on rolling the car out of the parking lot. In his rearview mirror he sees Officer Leonard watch him leave from the door. 

Neither of them acknowledge each other as they leave, only several hard glances are exchanged, before Roger is too far onto the road and Officer Leonard is swallowed by early morning darkness.

The car drive is uneventful and he makes it home without a scratch despite the total darkness and danger for crossing deer which increases closer into the countryside.

Despite the early hour, John is still waiting for him out on the porch. 

Roger spots him only after parking the car and nearly bumping into him, which in his defense is very likely in the pitch black darkness of the autumn morning without wearing his glasses on his nose. The jump bounces them from his head to his face, though, and Roger still nearly tumbles to the floor when he crashes into John on the porch stairs. 

"Jesus Christ you creep!" 

"Hello to you too." John grumbles, and then wraps his arms around Rogers waist to steady his still wobbly attempt to balance himself. He is then used as a pole for John to rise up too, smiling wryly. "You're late."

"I was being grilled for having no control over my temper."

Roger grumbles and with a tiny hint of a smile, John silences him with a peck on the lips. One that Roger can breathe into and then exhale through his nose, giving his head the illusion of relief. 

John still has an arm snug around Rogers waist. When their faces pull back, he still keeps Roger flush against his side. 

"He needs to get off your back, before he'll see your true temper." John whispers sullenly, and he curls his fingers through Rogers hair in an attempt to keep him close. Roger tries to move towards the house, but John stops him with a tug to his hair, frowning deeply. "One more moment." He whispers against Rogers lips. "One more moment before I have to share you again."

Roger closes his eyes to escape the utter adoration in Johns. His heart would burst if he kept being exposed to such open and true affection.

He allows John to connect their lips into another short blissful kiss, that curls Rogers toes in his shoes and makes him inhale sharply in wonder, wondering if he will keep feeling like this, even a thousands kisses down the road, if the soft curve of Johns thin but warm lips will always bring him to his tip-toes and make his lashes flutter. 

A part of him hopes he will never feel different. Another part of him wishes he could handle his emotions with more grace, which, he can't. 

"You're thinking too much." John mutters against his lips a moment later.

Roger sees no use in lying to John, who can see even through a concrete wall if he looks hard enough, let alone a flimsy lie from Roger. He re-opens his eyes and sighs. The darkness of the morning brings gushing winds carrying freezing cold. Roger huddles closer against John and shakes his head. 

"Just having a weird feeling tonight." He admits. Even if he doesn't understand what exactly it means. 

John observes him quietly, not unlike a scientist in a zoo. He eventually drops it and drags Roger towards the front door by his waist, smiling softly in their closeness. "We are all having an off morning," He comments on something larger, Roger fears, suspecting they must have been fighting again. "Things will be balanced again when you're home. It's weird waking up without you."

They pass through the front door. John following past Roger, checking the dark and empty garden behind them before he closes the door and gets inside.

He waits with Roger in the hallway, watching Roger patiently remove his shoes and then his coat. 

Before it has even put its weight on the hanger, the living room door flings open and in a flurry, Freddie, Brian and four cat burst into the hallway, trying to reach him rapidly for kisses, greetings and an update of the day.

Roger fondly allows himself to be pushed up against the front door after watching John lock it, crowded for information regarding the case and Rogers witness statement. 

"Did they say anything about your mothers court hearing? Surely they must see she is a victim there, rather than a co-conspirator. The lawyer said he would make sure that was understood perfectly." Freddie says firmly, and has Rogers left hand clenched between his two. Like a mother praying for her childs fever to go before dawn arises and she will be off to work and the child will be awake again, notice its usual energy missing.

"We were mostly just talking about the witness hearing really... Officer Leonard thinks I have a temper."

"And you don't?" Brian snorts, whicih ears him a deadly serious glare. He crouches behind Freddie, faux cowering from Roger. "Don't lose your temper."

"That's hardly funny Brian. This man thinks I am an imbecile. Well, he is one for thinking he will be able to find Richard before he commits another crime. He has either run off to Canada or is plotting to murder me—"

Rogers dreadful mini-speech is interrupted by the disruptive sudden shrill bell of the phone across the hallway.

His eyes meet Freddie's first. Mostly because he is right in front of Roger.

His eyes are wide with horror. He has stopped fumbling around with the cat under his arm, his entire body goes still, like a statue would if statues could be rigid and sickly pale that contrast their complexion so. 

Just behind Freddie, Brian swallows thickly and looks between the three of them. "Someone should take that."

Ominous 8 a.m calls are never good news, for as far as Roger is concerned. The last call was to let know Richard has posted bail and left. This time, he almost doesn't want to know who is calling or what is wrong. His gut tells him _Clare, Clare, Clare_. And then the light disappears for an angry blood coloured mist. _Richard, Richard, Richard._

John is the sensible one, thank god, that pushes Rogers body into motion and forces him in the direction of the still loudly offending phone on the wall. 

He leads Roger all the way back, until he can alter between leaning against John or the wall, both very steady, one less warm.

Roger closes his eyes before he can even muster the energy and courage to answer it.

When John sees exactly that, he offers in a low but hesitant tone, "Do you want me to—?"

He nods. He can't trust his voice to carry now. 

Before John has taken a deep breath and taken the phone off the hook, Freddie and Brian have shuffled closer to offer at least their physical support, even when they are both as terrified as Roger is. 

John answers the phone with a curt introduction, his fac perfectly neutral other than the slight crease between his brows. 

There is a familiar voice on the other end, sounding low in anger, extremely upset. Roger closes his eyes and tries to focus on what it is. What might be wrong. His heart begins to raise in his chest, and John is no longer looking at him, but at the floor. His gaze is calculating and his fingers are clenched tight around the phone. 

Roger opens his mouth in order to ask what is wrong, but then suddenly, out of the blue, Johns entire face goes slack and he lifts his gaze to stare at Roger, mouth agape. 

But he is still holding the phone to his ear, breath held and eyes wide, until he exclaims. 

"What?!"

Suddenly Rogers mind is flooded with terrible scenarios that sink his heart into his gut. He grabs Johns arm and squeezes him hard. All the fear is gone, he needs to know what exactly us wrong.

John tears his eyes away from Rogers and whispers shakily, "It's Richard." His eyes are wild with raw perplexion. "They found him."

★☆★ __

_"I need you to do me a favour."_

_Ron groans as soon as hears who is on the other line. Yet he doesn't hang up the phone, which is a good first step._

_A beat of silence passes by. Crystal can practically hear Ron try to gather his thoughts. As expected, he tries to stretch time, much to Crystals dismay. "Haven't heard from you since they hauled you back to rehab my friend. You looking for a way back into this world? I can still offer you a job."_

_"Cut the crap, Ron. This is a time-sensitive request."_

_Ron exhales soundly through his nose, somewhat like a sulking dog. Crystal pinches the bridge of his nose at the seconds that pass between answers._

_"Right. Shoot."_

_"I saved your ass, back in '67. You remember that right?" Through gritted teeth, he confirms that he does. Crystal nods even if Ron can't see it. "Good. I'm coming to collect my debt."_

_"What do you want, Crystal?"_

_Here goes nothing. "I know can easily learn about Richard Powells whereabouts."_

_This time not a second passes before a reply comes. "Why?"_

_"I need him to get out of London. In fact, I need him out of England."_

_"To catch you up on the current affairs in the London underworld; Richard is in hiding from the police, they have warrants for his arrest out for him everywhere. And besides, they got his passport. No way he is getting off this godforsaken island. There are too many police sniffing around for him."_

_Ron is not some lowlife criminal doing drugs and prostitution for a living._

_However, as much as he is aware of what goes on in that world, he likes being informed._

_This man is a planner and an intellectual. He doesn't get his hands dirty on small crimes, he has his claws in unions, owns entire industries in the United Kingdom, makes commissions off businesses in entire communities, he is a man of trade and enterprise. The Bull Crew is nothing but a steppingstone to him, but Crystal still imagines their dissolvement must have been a shock to him too._

_Crystal had worked for him, briefly, only to make petty cash for more drug use. It was odd hours and involved nothing but following Rom around and standing guard during meetings, or even in front of Ron's house._

_Off duty, he had saved his life, once, when another one of the bodyguards had planned an assassination and Crystal had, for his better judgement, stuck around the premises when he suspected foul play._

_He had saved the bosses life that day._

_This meant he owed Crystal one. Crystal knows one thing, and that is how much the mafia hates owing anyone._

_"Give him a car and a safe haven in Scotland." He grabs his notebook and flips two pages back to read the words he had scribbled down. "You own a motel here, don't you? Grovers Inn?"_

_Ron pauses. "Yes."_

_"Yes, then offer him a car and a room at your inn. That's what I want. I need him gone from here. Make him an offer he can't refuse, you're a convincing man."_

_"Crystal you know I don't want to get involved in this police shit. Whatever you are plotting, I do not want to take part in it. Aiding Richard in leaving will only come to bite you in the ass, if not you, then me."_

_"You owe me. You know you owe me." Crystal reminds him, remaining calm, knowing by Ron's tone that his resolve is dissolving. "Get him a car and a room. Mail me the spare keys of both."_

_There is rustling on the other line and Crystal can hear Ron also reaching for a pen and paper to scribble down the instructions. While the pen scratches the paper, Ron asks, "So what is this about? He give you so much drugs you want to help him run off into the sunset?"_

_"Something like that."_

_"Hmm, well. Keep me out of it, will you? What address do I mail your keys to?"_

_Instead of telling Ron where he lives, he tells him to send it to the post office one town over. Ron calls him a smart boy under his breath but doesn't comment any further._

_"Expect your keys there the day after tomorrow, I'll make sure of it. I will call when I have things sorted with Richard, have to track him down first, then convince him. It won't be easy that's for sure, but it is in his best interest to get away from the rigid police, but word on the street is that he is working to avenge the Crew."_

_Crystal releases the air he didn't know he was holding in his tensely expanded lungs. He also flexes the fingers that were previously clutching the phone. "Thank you."_

_"And Crystal? Do nothing stupid. The police are all over this man. There is no payoff in helping him. Too much risk."_

_The wise words of an old, tired man. He snorts into the receiver. "Just get him out of London. Will you be able to do that?"_

_"Who do you think I am?" Ron lets out an offended scoff. "I will get him to Grovers inn by the end of this month. That is a promise."_

_"I will keep you to that." Is what Crystal uses as his final goodbye, before hanging up the phone._

_★☆★_

_Since living in Scotland, Crystal likes to walk._

_One learns how to appreciate the open-air after spending the last decade in the heart of London and the home of poor air quality. He walks with his hands in his pockets and his coat pulled tight around his body. Autumn is no joke._

_He is glad to find no clouds in the sky that night, only stars. Thousands of tiny bulbs of light many billions of kilometres away._

_There is a light breeze too, carrying Crystal a little faster down his path, like a subtle nudge from the universe._

_He walks for less than two hours, walking down the streets following the directions he had memorized gravely into his mind to the point he could sleepwalk the route. The coat he wears is new and so are his shoes and the clothes underneath, just in case. Nothing notable which anyone would recognize him in._

_Under his arm he is carrying a bag, a small bag that is not reflective in any way. Brown leather. Bought in a second-hand shop managed by a young lady who was too busy on the phone to take note of his face, though he had made a point of going to the store regularly, every Tuesday, every Thursday, so his visit would not be noted as anything significant._

_While the bag is as un-unique as a Simon and Garfunkel album cover, the weight of the contents inside weighs down the muscles of Crystal's shoulder and arm._

_Luckily for him, when he tilts his chin he sees a large sign with Grovers Inn ahead, signalling the entrance to the motel._

_Despite the eager jump in his chest, he forces himself to keep walking in the same steady pace. The last thing he wants is to draw attention to himself when he had so carefully avoided attention all the way here from the bus stop an hour and a half away._

_He enters the parking lot a little after midnight. He slows his steps to check if nobody else is around, but much to Crystals relief at least seven cars occupy empty parking spaces, keeping the lot from being empty and nobody is snooping around._

_This gives him the confidence to walk straight up to the first room he sees to read which number it is._

_The building is built with all the rooms having its own separate entrance from the parking lot, with reception opposite of the hotel itself. Ron had it built years ago, while Crystal still worked for him. He knows that many unsavoury things happen here, drug deals and prostitution, neither of which Ron is a part of. He owns the location, which is all._

_The first room is number 29. Crystal feels around for his key in his pocket, checking if it's still there._

_He knows by memory that his key chain says 36._

_Without lingering by the wrong door, Crystal walks down the row of worn orange doors. None of the rooms have a window, just a peephole and a lock. Good._

_Seven doors ahead, Crystal comes eye to eye with the little silver plaque next to the door that reads 36._

_He stops then._

_Much to his own surprise, he doesn't feel nervous._

_His heartbeat is steady and therefore his blood flow regular. His vision is focused and his senses seem sharper than ever before, as if enhanced for his own safety._

_In his mind, he recites every step to take. The plan he had been working on for weeks, leading up to this very moment._

_There is little choice but to go with the plan._

_He opens the brown bag slowly, taking out the box with the latex surgical gloves. He snaps one pair over his hands, looking around the parking lot again, to make sure nobody is watching. And if they are, Crystal is barely recognizable with his hair pulled back into a braid hidden in his tall oversized coat._

_Once the gloves are on, he takes his shoes off._

_He had only bought them the day before. And only put them on wearing two pairs of new socks and the same latex gloves that should leave no fingerprints, footprints, or any other traces._

_He leaves his shoes by the door, flat against the wall. He slings the strap of his bag around his shoulder without snapping it closed._

_Any misstep could and will lead to utter failure. So Crystal, before he reaches into his pocket to grab the key with his gloved fingers, reminds himself not to fuck this up._

_A small sigh escapes his lips when the key turns smoothly into the lock._

_There is only a soft click, but to Crystal it is deafening._

_Every hair on his body stands upright when he pushes the door open. Cringing when the cheap wood makes a creaking protest._

_Knowing his surprise element is being wasted, Crystal hurries his way inside and closes the door with his foot, in case any sounds should alarm anyone._

_The room is like every other cheap inn. There is a double bed with a simple nightstand, a vintage lamp and an ugly brown rug accompanied by beige stained walls. There is an open door that leads into the bathroom, which is where Crystal finds Richard, standing in his underwear, bare-chested and confused beyond belief._

_Then, after taking a pause to identify the person in front of him, his eyes dawn in realization. And his confusion is replaced by seething anger._

_"You." He breathes heavily through his nose. "You were the one who sent me to Leeds."_

_Crystal gives him a calculated once-over. Noting that, since last time they spoke, Richard has lost bulk and his face is sunken and bruised. Crystal, on the other hand, has been exercising vividly since coming to Scotland and harder when his plan was set into motion._

_He takes a step into the room. And to his delight, Richard tries to stumble back._

_" Indeed, that was me. Did you find what you were looking for?"_

_"You fucked him, didn't you? You fucked him and now you're trying to prove something by coming here? Stealing the key? Buffing up?" Richard forces his body to stop backing up before it hits the tiled wall behind him. He scoffs. "You think I'm scared of you?"_

_Crystal flexes his gloved hands by his sides. He keeps his lips pressed together._

_He did not come to chat._

_Richard plants both his feet on the floor and raises his bawled-up fists to his face, in a stance of self-protection._

_But Crystal is faster and younger._

_Before Richard has the chance to steady himself on his feet, Crystal closes the space between them and then, without even his heartrate speeding up the slightest, he uncurls his hand and takes one, strong, swing at Richards under-chin with the heel of his palm._

_It is a technique he learned while guarding Ron, back in the 60s._

_It is a fast and painless way to knock someone out black, without any bruises left on your own body. And sure enough, it takes only one swing at him for Crystals hard palm to slam Richards head back, after which he stumbles backwards and into the wall. Before he hits the white tiles with the back of his skull, he is already sliding down to the floor with his eyes rolling back._

_Knocked out cold._

_He hits the floor with a loud thud. His limbs follow in several awkward directions, giving Crystal the sight of a broken man, a sight he finds more satisfying than a sane man should feel._

_With no time to waste, Crystal unslings his bag from his shoulder and puts it down for him to unpack it with ease._

_He starts with the rope he had brought with him, some he found by coincidence next to a dumpster on his way from work and had taken it home, while still wearing latex gloves._

_Moving around with the latex gloves isn't comfortable, but it's safer in case the police starts looking for fingerprints._

_He uses the rope to tie Richard up. This is physically more challenging than he had anticipated._

_The human body is heavy, especially the one of an unconscious grown man._

_Crystal flips him unceremoniously onto his stomach and pulls his arms back, to tie the wrists together as tight and as painful possible. He doesn't care about the joints he is popping and the awkward angles Richards body is laid out on the white tiles._

_He makes quick work of tying up his arms and then, once the wrists and arms are secured, he wraps the rope around Richard's torso, trapping his arms in place._

_This is more difficult, Crystal has to prop him up against the bathtub in order to reach around him several times to make sure he is secured._

_Then finally, he uses the remaining meters of the rope to tie Richards bare legs together._

_Touching his skin feels like a violation of rules. Richard, prior to seeing him here in this hotel room, was a mythical creature from Rogers nightmares. He had met Richard ones, yes, but Crystal had not laid a finger on him, had not spared him the thought even. He had been too occupied to lie for Roger. Make sure the hound wouldn't get a whiff of him._

_Now the spell of untouchability is broken._

_Richard is, by all means, at his disposal._

_He ties him up, all the way down so the rope bites into the bare sensitive skin around his ankles, leaving angry red marks all over his bare body where the rope is pulled too tight._

_When that is done, Crystal allows himself a break, but only a short one._

_He gets up to find his bag again, using the few paces to calm himself down before he might start to sweat and leave traces in fluids._

_He keeps his ears on high alert in case Richard wakes up again. Crystal bends down to grab from his bag the remaining items he might need. He carries them under his arm to the bathroom, careful not to put it too close to Richards limp body._

_Then Crystal leaves the bathroom again, this time just to rummage around Richard's room, careful only to touch things with his gloved hands._

_Just in case._

_He looks around the drawers, shoving them open and pushing irrelevant items to the side in search for a pair of socks. On the second drawer, he has a hit and finds several pairs bundled up exactly how Crystal needs them. He takes one pair of them with him, satisfied, and moves to push the drawer shut again, but pauses when he is alerted by the sound of clattering metal inside._

_Ears ringing and curious, Crystal he opens the drawer again, he hears the same promising sound. He quirks up his eyebrow and moves to the side the unfolded clothes and other socks owned by Richard to find what had made the noise._

_At the back of the drawer, bundled underneath a pair of trousers, Crystal finds a silver-lined gun._

_The handle is heavy in his palm, promising the presence of bullets and Crystal checks to make sure the gun is secured and not ready to fire._

_But that is not the item that truly catches his eye._

_From the same trousers bundle, he finds something much more interesting._

_A simple white envelope, A4 sized, is nestled neatly in the crotch of the trousers. He fishes it out, carefully, and after a quick glance at the bathroom, he drops the gun back into the drawer in favour of checking what is inside the envelope._

_"Fucking hell."_

_He glares inside and sees at first glance the most amount of cash he has ever had the pleasure of handling._

_There are thousands upon thousands of pounds inside the envelope. Stacks pinned together carefully in neat piles._

_This time when he glares at Richard, it is not to check if he is still asleep, but to send him the hate he feels so deep inside his heart for this man._

_He knows what he has to do._

_He picks up the socks, a fork that he finds on the bedside table next to a half-eaten sandwich, and the envelope then walks back to the bathroom. On the way, he drops the envelope into his bag, but keeps the socks, which upon crouching down in front of Richards unconscious body, he shoves inside his mouth, nearly down his throat. Even in his sleep, he chokes on his breath._

_Crystal is filled with a surge of anger. He thinks about Roger while looking down at Richard._

_He has tried not to, since being forced to move to Scotland thinking about him had just made him feel both useless and helpless._

_Now, neither of those feelings are in the realm of his mood._

_He hauls Richard into the bathtub. It takes two attempts, one time he doesn't use enough force and bangs Richards head against the side of the tub, rather than help him in._

_The damage won't matter._

_Once he does have Richard in the tub, Crystal glares down at his lifeless body._

_He is nothing but a little man now. Huddled in a tub, looking small with his limbs tied together and his mouth forced open, gagging on his own socks._

_Crystal rolls his left wrist, the one that is still tingling from knocking Richard out cold. He takes every second he has to look at the man that has ruined Rogers life. His childhood. Took away his mother, raped Roger repeatedly, abused him, got him addicted to the nastiest drug under the sun and had planned also to kill Roger now that he had escaped, if it weren’t for Ron convincing him to come to Scotland._

_Crystal hates this man with all his heart, soul and being._

_He hates him so much that his blood is boiling and his skin is on fire with rage._

_All the necessary items are laid out next to the bathtub, in close proximity. Crystal leans closer to Richard and then, when he finds the momentum, smacks him with his flat palm across his face._

_At first nothing happens, of course not. Crystal had knocked him out good._

_So he tries again, and again._

_When Richard whimpers in pain, not asleep but barely conscious either, Crystal is done playing games. And his palm is flaring up with pain._

_He reaches down and grabs the large bottle of concentrated sulphuric acid._

_With his gloves still on, he carefully unscrews the blue cap from the bottle, and covers his face with the collar of his coat to block out the chemical smell that instantly penetrates the room._

_Richard's eyes are rolling behind the lids, struggling in the purgatory between asleep and awake._

_Crystal watches his face and only his face when he pours without hesitation, a large amount of sulphuric acid onto Richards bare feet._

_That is all it takes for Richards eyes to fly open wide and to scream his lungs out, muffled by the sock in his mouth._

_Crystal continuous to pour, until Richard's face goes white as a sheet and pure horror reads in his dark lifeless eyes. In return, he smiles. The same little condescending smile Richard carried while delivering the drugs to Crystal in the hospital, so many months ago._

_The sock cannot cancel out all the noises, Richard is breathing heavily, snot is pouring out of his nose and tears have jumped into his eyes when Crystal stops drenching acid over his now sizzling feet._

_He takes a quick look at his handy work, noting how the acid is already soaking through Richards skin, biting the flesh off of Richards bones._

_Crystal screws the cap shut and puts it on the floor by his feet._

_Richard is in too much pain and tied up too well to put up much of a fight, but as soon as Crystal puts the acid away he begins to struggle again, like a rabid dog fighting for its survival._

_Crystal knows desperation when he sees it._

_Watching Richard wriggle around in the tub, whimpering and growling, drooling around the socks in his mouth while his feet are a bleeding gory mess, Crystal knows he is getting the revenge he came to seek._

_For the next part, Crystal grabs the fork he had found on the nightstand. He had hoped for a knife, which would have been easier, but this will do._

_He sits himself down on the edge of the tub and scoots closer to Richards head. His eyes widen comedically when Crystal approaches him. He knows he is in trouble when Crystal lifts the fork under Richards chin, forcing the thrashing man to look up at him._

_"Hey there." Crystal greets with a curl of his lips. "Good to have your attention finally."_

_He pushes the blunt ends of the fork into the soft skin of Richards neck, making the older man's breath catch in his throat, and finally, much to Crystals pleasure, freeze in place._

_"I wanted to put the record straight, y'know, before I killed you."_

_He says the words as casually as he can. Richard cannot be surprised by the announcement, surely, tied up and feet already melting away, he must know Crystal has plans for him. Still, his eyes draw narrow into a glare, tears forgotten and apparently, shame too._

_He tries to speak then, words muffled by the socks. Crystal knows that he wants a final word in, but he will never give Richard the satisfaction of having his last dignified words._

_"Oh no, I think it's my turn to speak now. I think you have run your mouth quite enough." To secure the message, Crystal pushes the sock a little deeper down Richard's throat, making him splutter through the drool-soaked fabric._

_"You see, I would like to put the record straight. I have never slept with Roger, we were friends, you see, just friends." Crystal smiles, and it is more real this time, less insane. "He tried to get with me, as things go, he wasn't used to people treating him like a human being. He's a good person and very beautiful too, wouldn't you say? I didn't need to sleep with him to understand that."_

_Crystal straightens his spine and presses the blunt end of the fork harder against Richard's neck, slowly increasing the pressure. Not quite pushing in, but almost._

_"I have had the pleasure to be a friend of Rogers for quite some time now, but I was very sad to find out why he was in the hospital in the first place._

_It is a terrible story, and I'm sure it makes you as sick as I am now, but it's a story about an adult male, gruesome and cruel, who took a young boy away from his mother and used his grief to control him. Do you know what he did to him?_

_He gave him drugs under the pretence of making him feel better, it did at first, of course, before it became a basic necessity to live. Then he became an addict, under the circumstances he lived in, because of his age, he crumbled under the pressure and was under the complete mercy of this monster._

_This monster, a ruthless savage beast, let his friends rape him for money. This monster took pleasure in abusing him and watching him get abused. He brand marked him too. To this day, he wears the scars that remind him of the monster that did that to him._

_He has to live with this pain every single day. Isn't that just gut-wrenching? It makes me nauseous just to think about it._

_So ever since, I thought about all the things I should do, if I were ever to encounter this monster. Because you see, I think anyone who knows the story, won't think the weight of revenge should be on Roger's shoulders. That would just be unfair, you see, because all of his life he has been forced to carry the burden of the monster alone. And just this once, I think, someone else should carry the responsibility of dealing with his foul demon. Wouldn't you agree?"_

_Tears have once more sprung into Richard's eyes. They run freely down his pale face._

_If Crystals fork wasn't one press away from penetrating Richards skin, he would be shaking his head, but now he is constricted to jerking movements._

_"I know, there is a grey moral era which I'm playing in, I can't say I'm not evil for enjoying seeing you like this. Fighting for your unsavable life. You will feel what it is like to be burned and scarred." Crystal tuts and snorts out a huff of laughter. "I will enjoy killing you. And I will enjoy ensuring that Roger can live the rest of the story in peace."_

_Richard's eyes bulge out in one final attempt to communicate, before Crystal jams the fork into Richard's windpipe._

_It takes force to push the blunt edges into the tissue there, but Crystal pushes in deep, until he hears a gut-wrenching wet creak, followed by a chocked gurgle from Richard, who is again, trying to thrash away from Crystal, fighting against the ropes. Crystal allows him to struggle freely, watching the blood flow from his neck in morbid fascination when he pulls the fork back. Only to stab it back in, aiming for the same wound, but puncturing new ones in the process instead._

_The sounds Richard makes are nothing short from disturbing._

_Crystal stabs him two more times, in or around the same area of his neck, into his windpipe._

_Every second, Richard is struggling to breathe, trying desperately to free his arms to claw at his face, keep the blood from streaming out in such thick red blobs, a constant flow that trickles down his chest too, leaving him to look savage and animalistic._

_On the last stab, Crystal keeps the fork wedged into Richards neck._

_Again, he reaches for the bottle of acid on the floor and repeats the same routine as before. He screws the cap open and gets up to his feet, standing tall, towering over Richards cowering, shivering body. Crystal begins to pour the acid over him._

_At first, he starts with his stomach, keeping the deadly chemicals concentrated in one area to watch Richards muscles contract in pain._

_He is sobbing now, weeping like a child as Crystal watches his skin melt away and the insides of his stomach slowly getting exposed behind rotten, melting flesh._

_The smell is nearly unbearable. Crystal has to restrain himself from gagging, though he doubts vomit would be the thing Richard should most worry about now._

_He keeps pouring, and when the bottle gets notably lighter, he moves it up a notch to inflict burn marks on Richard's chest too, and then, finally, his face._

_He is chocking, rigid. Crystal thinks he has peed his pants and bled through his own underwear._

_When the acid hits the open wound in his neck, Richard wails, but midway through his scream, his voice gives out. And the horror in his eyes is starting to blur distant. Their eyes meet and at the same time, they both realize then that Richard is on the brink of death._

_Richards body is still jerking in pain, in protest, but the movement is sluggish and weak. His glare vanishes when he can no longer keep his eyes focused._

_The blood loss contributes to Richards life slowly seeping out of his body through his freshly inflicted wounds._

_He keeps pouring the acid, on his face then, mutilating him._

_When he thinks Richard really is about to slip away, with his eyes rolled back and his limbs going slack, Crystal leans in close to whisper directly into Richard's ear._

_"And they lived happily ever after."_

_Richard jerks his chin one final time, before suddenly his head lulls back and he slides into the tub, legs and arms curled up, taking a bath in his own blood, acid and rotten flesh._

_Crystal notes in morbid fascination that it takes another thirty seconds for his muscles stop contracting even after his death._

_He watches it happen, watches Richards body break down muscle for muscle, joint for joint, nerve by nerve. Until he is nothing but a disfigured corpse._

_Crystal decides to finish the acid bottle, because he has no other use for it. Once it is emptied out over Richard, now covered in bald patches and burns, he reaches for the bleach he had also taken with him and uses it to also pour on top of Richard. A way to get rid of any fingerprints or other traces off Crystal, for when the police find the body._

_The pure bleach mixes with the warm blood in the tub, giving it a pink swirling look. Crystal will never look at the colour the same way, but he doesn't mind. He will be glad to remember what he did on this day._

_He finishes two bottles of bleach in the tub with Richard, who is still bleeding from the fork wound, before Crystal decides he has done what he came here to do._

_Every muscle in his body it taut with tension when he finally moves away from the tub, he is suddenly hyper-aware of every surface he has touched. And wonders if there were any traces of himself he hadn't thought of. But the clock on the wall tells him not to linger anymore on the details, he had planned all of this out at home. He had not made any mistakes, so there should not be any when it went according to plan._

_In his bag he has a plastic bag for the gloves, he uses it to remove the top pair, the ones covered in Richards blood._

_He replaces it with a new pair of surgical gloves to snap in place._

_Before he makes his leave, Crystal stops to look around the room and see if anything is out of place. He had already found the gun and money, so no reason to look for those. He sees no other interesting items around. The bed is unmade and there is an awful smell coming from the bathroom, even when Crystal takes the bottles back into his bag and closes the door. The cleaning lady will have a heart attack if she sees the state in which he left this room in, but Crystal can hardly go back on that now, and sends her a mental apology._

_With nothing else for him to do, Crystal slings his bag over his shoulder and walks casually towards the door, and on his way out, he closes the door and locks it._

_The first breath of fresh air is almost like a slap in the face. Fresh air is almost sickeningly good. Crystal inhales sharply, allowing the oxygen to flow from his nostrils to his brain, giving into the lightheaded buzz that is going through him._

_His shoes are still next to the door, where he left them. He takes off his socks and puts them in the same bag as the used surgical gloves, and steps into his shoes sockless._

_Even though it is night, everything is brighter now and he spots Richards car instantly underneath the moonlight._

_His cheeks hurt from smiling too hard and he struggles to not straight up run to Richards car like a loon. He walks slowly, confidently and has the keys ready when he rounds it to step inside without a struggle. The key turns into the lock and within ten seconds, he is seated and looking at himself in the rear-view mirror, noting that he is positively radiant._

_Crystal puts his bag next to him on the passengers' seat. And then puts the key in the ignition, turning it and glad when the car starts without a hitch._

_Every hair on his body is standing upright, somewhat in disbelief of what he has done today. He cups his hand in front of his mouth, because "Fuck. I killed Richard." As if he had not been planning it ever since hearing he had gotten a much lower punishment than the police had promised Roger and then posted bail. "I killed him."_

_It will be the only time in his life Crystal will allow himself to say the words out loud, after tonight, after he drives out of this parking lot, he will leave it behind forever and forever deny these claims._

_He takes the car off the handbrake and puts it in reverse, slowly rolling it out of the parking space._

_Crystal takes a left, and then another, driving away from Grover Inn using the most unused roads and the quietest route he had been able to find._

_There is no radio on, which is appropriate right after being responsible for someone's murder, though Crystal lives with no ounce of guilt, he still likes the silence to reflect on a wistful night. In fact the radio stations don't even reach as deep into the woods as Crystal drives the car Richard had borrowed from Ron._

_The trees overhead keep the stars hidden through the thick branches._

_Crystal drives as deep into the woods as his map had predicted, a short but dark and wobbly fifteen minutes into the forest, until he reaches a clearing, after which he slows the car to a stop in front of the river he had located on the maps._

_Before exiting the car, Crystal rolls all the windows down, to make sure the car will be flooded well, but he also reminds himself to reach into his brown bag to take the envelope with cash out. The rest of the bag and its contents will go down with the car, the same fate awaits Crystals coat, which has started to smell like acid, but could also contain traces of Richard. The final thing he removes are the gloves._

_Crystal, once satisfied, hoists himself out of the car without touching anything with his skin and walks around it. He had parked it on the tilt of a slippery slope._

_One single push with his back rolls the car into the water. Crystal stays long enough to check if it gets consumed by the river water, and to his satisfaction, it does._

_It is a two-hour walk back to his flat, but Crystal will not be going there._

_His legs carry him through the forest and across the poorly kept path. Luckily, he finds his way through without getting lost. On the way back, he shakes his hair loose from the braid._

_It is uncomfortable walking without any socks in his shoes, but that he manages, a small sacrifice for the greater good._

_He strides across the gravel road and is relieved when the woods thin out about an hour later and the first signs of the starts coming through the darkness of the branches brings Crystals eyes up to the sky. He has been walking with his arms crossed over his middle, it is cold without a coat, but the promise of sunlight warms him up._

_It takes an hour and a half before he spots the first person out today, once he is closer to town and away from the forest._

_They pass each other with a polite nod, Crystal with a friendly smile on his face that forces out a smile from the other man as well._

_There is no way for this man to tell where Crystal came from. He has passed a bus station and a wee suburban neighbourhood, both of which are reasonable explanations as to why Crystal is here. Not a man who just came back from killing a man and dumping the evidence in a river._

_Crystal walks, until he is somewhat out of breath and his fingers are no longer clenched with tension. He walks until his thighs are burning and his face is no longer red._

_Crystal walks until he reaches the public payphone stall opposite his workplace._

_He steps inside, feeling a little dirty now touching public spaces with his uncovered bare hands. He pushes those thoughts away and instead reaches for the phone that sits perfectly on the calling machine. He reaches into his jean pockets for some pennies to put in, his hands are shaking now, but because of the cold, he tells himself._

_This too is something he had to burn mark into his brain, he closes his eyes and manages blindly to type in the number to the London police station._

_"Hello, West London Police Department how may we help you?"_

_Crystal still has his eyes closed and squeezes them tight. He feels wrung out, suddenly, and joyous in a sickeningly relieved way._

_It takes him a beat to answer, a beat long enough for the phone operator to grow suspicious. "Hello?"_

_"Yes, hello." Crystal forces himself to speak, but in a lower, more exaggerated Northern Scottish accent than necessary. "Pardon me, but I have information concerning Richard Powell's whereabouts."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha
> 
> Anyway
> 
> Thank you for the wonderful Evie my forensic Queen for beta’ing for me. 😏 (Yes I did commit the perfect murder today)


	40. Of Allegation and Alleviation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger and the boys live with the consequences of Crystals actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE HIT 300.000 WORDS TODAY! I am so terribly excited to share with you these 300.000 words of absolute constant emotional labour hahahaah.
> 
> I also want to say a genuine, big, thank you ☺️ And here you have an 11.000+ chapter xxx

"Rog?"

"Hm?"

"I know you're not sleeping." Freddie rolls onto his side at the same time as Roger turns over to face him too. His eyes have adjusted to the dark after staring into the void for most of the morning. But Roger visibly struggles more with focusing on Freddie as he squints and glares without his glasses.

Freddie's fingers are still stiff when he brings his hand up between their faces. Roger's eyelids flutter shut when Freddie brushes his thumb between his eyebrows. He smooths away the frown that was there one second ago. Roger, when the silence stretches on and he fails to come up with something to say, pushes his lips out for a kiss. 

Quicker than doubt, Freddie leans in to accept the invitation and brushes his lips over Rogers, in a tender lingering touch that does not last nearly long enough.

He does not lean back when it's over and instead puts his head on Rogers pillow. Their closeness relaxes Roger's shoulder and to ensure him he isn't leaving, Freddie puts his hand on top of his head and absentmindedly strokes his hair back, out of his face. 

"I love you. No matter what you are feeling now, I love you. Brian loves you. And John loves you."

Roger closes his eyes. He half expects Roger to pull out of his touch, Freddie continues to speak only when Roger doesn't move away at all, but grows stiff as a wooden plank beside him. 

"Your mother, she loves you. And Clare, you are the sun to her universe. They love you, no matter what."

"You think I'll be in trouble?" Roger asks, reopening his eyes. 

There is a vulnerability in his voice that strikes Freddie to the core. His heart twists in his chest and he tries not to let it show on his face. Roger does not need _his_ vulnerability on top of his own. 

He twirls one of Rogers brown strands around his finger, stroking his thumb over the sleek hairs beneath his fingerprint. 

"You were not anywhere near the place that it happened." Freddie assures him in a light tone. Lighter than he feels. "I don't see how you could be a getting the blame for this."

"I could have hired someone, asked them to do it." Roger mumbles then, with half his face stuffed in his pillow.

Freddie presses his lips together to think before he speaks. He drags his upper lip over his teeth, a habit he's used to silence himself ever since he was a child, which also came in handy when he became a therapist, a silent observer. 

There is no use in telling Roger he won't be suspected of being a part in the conspiracy and trying to kill Richard. The police had given very little information in the morning about what they had known and have yet to get back to them. 

It did not sound like they had a lot of information themselves, at least not any that they were willing to give them. 

Freddie exhales and his breath sweeps Rogers fringe up and out of his eyes. 

"They have had too much control over your schedule and communication to suspect you of something so outlandish," Freddie whispers, and when his lips move before his brain can restrain them, he surrenders himself to his instincts. "They found him slaughtered and mutilated. That was not a hire-for-murder, that was personal. They must know he has many enemies, being a gang member and all."

"They know I have exchanged letters with our family. I visited my mother at the hospital and an unauthorized call with Crystal. _God_!" Roger goes tense all over and suddenly, lifts his neck from the bedding. "My call with Crystal." 

Freddie sits up too, a little confused, "Yes?"

Roger looks at him frantically, his hands claw at the bedsheets to clutch them, he asks, "Crystal in Scotland. I called him, a few weeks before he was killed... You don't think they would know how to trace the call?"

"I don't know." Freddie replies bluntly. "Did he do it?"

"No! That's not what I'm saying. Don't say that."

All colour drains from Rogers skin until he nearly blends into the sheets beneath him. Freddie chastises himself for running his mouth too soon, before he can apologize Roger is already spiraling. 

"They will pin this on him if they found out we called." Roger sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and behind his front teeth to gnaw, which Freddie long noted as his nervous habit. "Why is everything going wrong? Nothing can ever just go right."

He drags Rogers hands out of the tangle of sheets to hold them in his own instead. His hands are freezing cold, but clammy. He had not shut an eye at all since going to their bedroom when doing anything else felt too overwhelming. It had been well into the morning, but Freddie did not want to leave him alone after just hearing such core shocking news. He thinks now that, perhaps laying in silence for hours was not Rogers style at all. Freddie should have said something earlier. 

"Hey, dear. Look at me— please, you don't know what the police know. All the letters we have sent to our families were read and double-checked by the police. That is why we were forced to send them through the police station in the first place. Remember, they have read your exchanges with people, they know you did not mention an assassination."

He gives Rogers hands a tight squeeze then. His heart clenches when Roger holds onto him for dear life, while his face stays a pale sort of stoic. Battling between numbness and hiding his wounds completely. 

Freddie lets him clutch as much as he needs. There is nowhere else in the world he might be needed more. 

"One phone call does not make you a hire-for-murder suspect. Okay? They likely won't even note a one-off call between a million calls to the station every single day and I doubt they can track it so long after the fact."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes!" Freddie exclaims as quietly as he can, to not disturb the cats laying at the foot of the bed. "Yes, Rog. Sure there is a motive, with how upset you were after hearing he could place bail and escape any longterm punishment, but they need evidence to pin this on you. Proof. There were many people with motives to kill him. The Menom Shooting targeted his branch specifically, why wouldn't it be them?"

"I don't know." Roger says in the same unsure voice.

Freddie pulls on his arms, making him lean forward. "Neither do they."

"If Crystal takes the fall for this, because he was in Scotland too and he does not have an alibi because he was alone in his flat simply because it was the dead hours of the morning, I will never ever be able to forgive myself for making one selfish phone call."

Freddie opens his mouth and thinks of the reply while he does. He thinks. Closes his eyes and squeezes them tight, while he thinks. He knows very well that Roger has already been consumed with guilt from the whole situation. He was the reason why Crystal was sent to Scotland in the first place and the reason why Crystal might be associated with Richard, or with a motivation for a murder. 

Instead of coming up with a bullshit response, Freddie tugs Roger a little tighter and force his arms around his smaller, curled up frame. 

He wraps his arms around Roger's waist and pulls him flush against his chest. 

With one audible and physical sigh, Roger locks himself into Freddie by putting his chin on his shoulder, his arms around his chest and his face in his neck. 

He isn't crying. Freddie thinks, strangely proud, that Roger is not sad. 

He keeps him close and allows Roger simply to breathe against him and with him, swaying him gently from one side to the other with a soft song playing in a humming tone in his mind. He keeps his mouth shut, though, because this is a reflective time for Roger and he would not want to interfere with the stages of emotions he is going through. 

While John and Brian might not think of this, hell, Roger probably does not want to think of this, but Roger once loved Richard. 

In fact, Roger devoted his life to Richard both for survival, the dire need of affection and that of his bare and basic needs. 

When one's abuser dies survivors struggle to find peace. 

Where most think they will find eternal peace and relief, because there will never be a chance that they will be at their abusers' mercy again— many survivors find themselves stuck between anger, anxiety, regret and guilt.

Death triggers refreshed memories and awakens a range of emotions in _any_ person who experiences the death of someone close to them. 

For survivors of abuse, there is no guidebook on how to grief when the same happens to them.

Being relieved of someone's passing is considered disrespectful in many peoples eyes. 

Being sad makes many doubt the severity of their own past abuse and fear their accounts won't be considered true by people who see them grief their abuser. 

Being sad might feel like a betrayal to their own progress. 

Being happy is often followed by guilt, because most abusers have left survivors with both good and bad memories. 

The death of an abuser is never one that truly offers closure for the survivor and often does not offer justice either. It brings back memories and usually, in cases like Roger's, triggers old addictions. Freddie closes his eyes and tries to hug Roger even close to him, even when they are already mashed against each other. Rogers legs splayed around Freddie and their bodies molded into one being.

He pushes his nose into Roger's hair and nuzzles against him, until his nose brushes over the shell of his ear and Freddie pauses to kiss the sensitive outline. 

This is not going to be an easy ride. 

But nevertheless, Roger does not appear sad, not about Richard. 

He is indifferent, worried, guilty. But he seems to have shoved all thoughts of Richard aside to worry about everyone else first. Freddie suspects it is a coping mechanism, as well as Rogers true personality shining through. 

His worries are with himself, if he will go to jail for something he did not do.

His guilt is for Crystal and if he will be given the blame simply for association with Roger. 

But he is indifferent, mostly because, or so Freddie guesses, with the whole situation around Richards death there are too many layers to unpack to comprehend what emotions he is feeling and why. 

"It will be okay." Freddie promises directly into Roger's ear. 

"... And what if it's not?"

"Even then," Freddie is still swaying them, slowly and with no intentions of getting up soon to join Brian and John in the living room, they had been too agitated to lay down with Roger. Freddie kisses his ear again. "Even then it will be okay. Richard is dead and you are still here, in my arms. How could it possibly not be okay?" 

Roger snorts then, but doesn't move to pull away. 

"You utter sap. I can't believe I'm allowing you to spew this nonsense to me."

"Hope isn't nonsense." Freddie scoffs playfully accompanied by a squeeze around Rogers middle. "Besides, if the police couldn't get Richard on forced prostitution and drug trafficking from countless victim statements, I doubt they can get you on a murder-for-hire from a single phone call." 

Roger thinks about that for a second, humming, considering the words. 

Freddie doesn't mind the silence. Roger will have a lot of thinking to do over the next few days to understand where he is at emotionally. Though Freddie doubts he will have the mental capacity for that before they know he and anyone associated with him is not considered a suspect in the case. 

"Hm, we should ask John about the phone tracing. He would know." Freddie says after a moment.

He had not moved a muscle, but when the words left his lips, Roger instantly tenses up and tightens his arm around Freddie, as if to keep him from moving even an inch. He clutches onto Freddie, holds onto him for dear life, and whispers, "Just one more second. Please."

Freddie forces himself to relax to not have Roger take any emotional baggage from him. He smoothens out his face and lowers his shoulders. 

"I'm here." He says in an equally quiet tone. "I am here, don't worry. I won't go."

"Thanks. I just need to be here for another moment, if that's okay?"

"Yes, yes of course." Freddie inhales sharply. 

His chest hurts with how tight his hard is clenching. He holds onto Roger with equal desperation, in reassurance that he would not be the first one to let go. 

"I can't believe he's dead."

"... I know."

Then Roger goes completely quiet again, but Freddie can feel his body sag against his own. 

★☆★ 

Three days later, Roger is called into the police station.

None of them allow themselves to panic, but at the same time, they each prepare for the worst. 

They feed Roger a large and filling meal before they leave the house. He is wearing comfortable clothes with underneath comfortable plain underwear and socks. Freddie cuts his hair, while Roger clips his nails. 

"You think they'll arrest me?" He asks into the reflection in the mirror.

Freddie is brushing the strands back with a comb, getting the final loose hairs out and onto the floor. The slow motions have lulled Roger into a calmer mood, despite his possibly pending arrest. 

"Brian said they don't usually expect a hire-for-murder suspect to volunteer himself to the police." He hums, and thinks about the words while the teeth of the comb slide between Rogers smooth hairs. "It wouldn't make sense, I suppose, I'd expect them to come knocking and put you in cuffs, if that is really what they suspect you of."

"Right."

He doesn't sound half convinced and Freddie can't blame him, not with how avidly they are all preparing him for a potential arrest. 

It is with that fear seeping into the cold nooks of their skeletons that they all stiffly cram themselves in the car. John is driving, the one with the steadiest hands. Roger sits next to Brian in the back. Through the rearview mirror, Freddie watches them lean onto each other, Roger with his head on Brian's shoulder, with Brian leaning onto Roger in return. Their eyes are blank, it seems, Roger more effectively than Brian, who is unmistakably worried. Overwhelmed with worry.

None of them have slept much over the last few days. The police call had almost come as a relief after the radio silence following the call concerning Richards murder, in Scotland.

The drive is long and silence. Freddie tries singing under his breath, and when that doesn't break the tension, he reaches around himself and offers his hand to Roger, who takes it with a grateful squeeze.

They stay like that all the way there.

When the station does come into view and John rolls into the parking lot, Roger lets go of his hand and straightens his back, tension seeping back into his skin, tight with anxiety. 

Freddie unbuckled his seatbelt to turn around and have a proper look at him, but Brian has beaten him to it. He has Rogers face between his hands, then, and gives his face a warm and loving squeeze, before leaning in to kiss him on the mouth. 

Roger's eyes widen in surprise the first millisecond, before they flutter shut immediately after. 

He sighs and leans into the kiss to give Brian proper access. 

John is looking too, now, after sloppily wedging the car between two police cars and turning off the engine. 

None of them had left Roger completely alone even for one moment since the news had broken out. There was always someone with him, to make sure he was okay. Freddie knows that the others are as anxious about parting from Roger as he is. 

The news of Richards death was a relief, first and foremost. The constant fear of him luring and plotting to harm or kill either Roger, them, or their families weighted on all of them. His death is admittedly one less threat to their lives and could mean that they could possibly integrate back into society. The second thought that came in were the negative consequences of the death. The possibility that Roger would get the blame, or someone close to him, like Crystal. It is unclear to them when exactly the murder took place and whether anyone possibly suspected would have an alibi. This leaves a lot of room for contemplation and for anxiety. 

"It'll be alright," Brian says when he pulls away from Roger's lips. "We'll have a lawyer ready in case you are arrested, he promised to get started as soon as we know more."

"I know." Roger breathes and manages a miniature smile. "I am eternally grateful, for all of you. And I know we have not really talked about it, but, I didn't do it. I did not order anyone to do it, I did not ask for anyone to do it, I never vocalized or wrote I desired him dead. I just wanted to make that clear, in case everything goes south, just know, I did not do it."

Brian wraps his arms around Roger and pulls him in for a hug. 

John twists in his chair to reach out and lay a hand on Roger's shoulder to give him a tight squeeze. "We know, Rog. You wanted to do this the right way. You went to the police and you did everything they asked." 

"I wouldn't have the stomach to— fuck... _Mutilated_ they said... I wouldn't have the stomach to wish that."

"I know," John gives him a short, very tight smile that does not reach his eyes. "The bastard deserved it— don't give me that look. He deserved it. You were not involved, but you didn't have to be. Someone knew what kind of a bastard he was and took the opportunity when it arose. I can never repay them back for serving justice where it was due."

Freddie's eyes dart back to Roger for a quick scan of his face. 

He notices colour has come back to his cheeks, partly, perhaps because of his kiss with Brian, but he has been pale as a sheet for days. He is different now, and in his eyes, he seems not lost or upset, the indifference still holds dominance. 

Roger wets his lips, before he speaks, and says then, "Don't let the police hear you speak like that."

"I won't." John snorts and adds, "We should get out."

"Yeah."

The four of them leave the car as one moving entity. Walking slower than would be considered natural. 

Roger sticks close to Freddie. Their hands brush against each other with every step, giving the comforting illusion of holding onto each other. Freddie curls his fingers upwards to grace over Rogers inner palm.

They enter the station, from the back entrance. 

Oliver is waiting for them behind the door, looking squeamish and skittish, two bad signs that have Freddie's own stomach rolling. 

"Hey, hey you guys, glad you managed to come." He scrambles to open the door wide for them to step inside. He gestures towards the hallway, but none of them moves a muscle before he shuts the door again and scoots past them to lead the way. "Everything okay? The news must have been a shock to you."

Their ears prickle at the formulation of the words. Roger frowns deeply before he answered. 

"Incredibly shocked, indeed."

Oliver squeezes his eyes shut and nods hastily. "A cowardly thing, really. He should have faced you in court, you deserved the closure."

"Thank you, Oliver." Rogers tone somewhat sharper than perhaps intended. "Didn't the officers want to speak with me?"

"Yes, indeed they did, sorry, come with me. Oh, you can all come, but you three must wait outside the office during the talk, sorry. Just the orders I was given, I mean."

Roger rolls his eyes, but only when Oliver isn't looking. He is starting to relax, Freddie notes. Maybe rightfully so, because if Roger were to be arrested, they would expect the police to be waiting for them by the door, rather than their overenthusiastic intern. 

"Of course, Oliver, we get the drill."

"Good, that's good, I know you must be going through a lot now, but I am sure the conversation would be very short, you wouldn't be left alone with them for long," And says under his breath, "Lucky for you."

Freddie sticks close to Rogers side while they walk down the hallway. 

The station seems to have gone back to its busy schedule from before, when Rogers case had just been taken by them. 

There are people walking up and down the hallway, exiting and entering rooms with files under their arms and coffee mugs between their trembling fingers. It is back to business, with Richards murder, while Freddie is sure he remembers John telling him the case was taken on by the local Scottish deputy, rather than this far in London. The case will be relevant to the court case nonetheless, Freddie doesn't even want to comprehend how much paperwork would go into that. 

"Here we are, I'll be asking you gentlemen to wait here."

Oliver blocks the door from Freddie, John and Brian by using his arm as a barrier between them and Roger. 

Johns frown intensifies, but Freddie pulls him back by his elbow and forces himself to smile at Roger, "We will be here, if you need us."

"Thanks, Fred." He drops his eyes to his shoes, and shuts them. Freddie sees his lips move and he thinks Roger might be counting his breaths as Dominique had taught him. He does this for a good twenty seconds, barely two breathing cycles long, before Oliver clears his throat. 

Roger reopens his eyes and lifts his chin to nod. "Right, I'm ready."

"Good, let's get it done." Oliver opens the door for him and Roger slips inside the office without a second glance back at his boyfriends or the intern. 

Freddie clutched his heart, feeling a little nervous again when Oliver follows behind Roger and the door shuts with a final, but audible click. 

"Fuck." 

"You can say that again." Brian leans back against the wall and rubs his face with his hands. "God."

"The kid looked nervous." Freddie observes, and turns to John, "Did you notice that?"

"They've gotten new information, that's why everyone is bustling around and why they've called Roger in. That's what I assume."

Brian lowers his hands enough to also look at John. "No arrest, then?"

"I'm assuming not, everyone is busy and the boy looked like he's seen a ghost. I'm guessing pictures, then, perhaps a full report sent in from Scotland."

"Pictures?" Brian is starting to look a little green around the edges too. "Didn't they say he was disfigured after the attack?"

"Might be why he looked so sick." Freddie hums. 

He doesn't like the idea of Roger being inside of that room, alone with the police and being forced to look at the crime scene pictures of his dead ex-boyfriend. Freddie shifts from one foot to the next and crosses his arms over his chest, but the unease doesn't go away. 

"You think they'll show it to Rog?"

"They can hardly force him," John mutters. "I think they might be asking questions, might be giving victim support. You never know."

"That's awfully optimistic of you." Freddie quirks up an eyebrow, somewhat taken aback.

John snorts and rolls his eyes playfully. "I've got my moments. Besides, we don't know what they know. Maybe they caught the person who did it, and they've come to tell us."

"You think they would have caught the killer already?" Brian asks doubtfully.

"If the crime scene is as bloody as they say it is, there will be fingerprints all over the place. Maybe someone saw something. There is always a trail."

 _Let's hope not_ , Freddie thinks secretly. Secretly, like John, grateful for the person who took matters into their own hands when things were starting to look so hopeless for Roger. 

"We don't know what they know," Freddie repeats instead. "I doubt they are arresting Roger, though, which is one relief."

"Right, we must remain positive."

They continue to stand there, mostly in silence. 

Occasionally someone passes them holding a file or pictures in their arms. Each time the boys try to read over the persons shoulder to catch a glimpse, but have so far been unsuccessful. 

John had gone as far as to wander around the offices of the policemen at work. Walking casually between desks, but gaining nothing new, since every officer feels his eye son the back of their necks and cover with other papers anything John is not meant to see. Many incredibly exasperated a civilian is trying to interfere with their job. 

Eventually, he comes back none the wiser. 

Like Brian, they lean against the wall now, after a good fifteen minutes standing had become tiresome, especially after the rough nights they had suffered from before. 

Lucky for them it only takes five more minutes before they hear the tell-tale sound of the doorknob twisting, before Roger comes rushing out of Larry Jones' office, followed by the two officers themselves and Oliver.

Not that Freddie is paying them any mind, when he has Roger dashing towards him, arms stretched out for a hug.

"I'm cleared." He closes his eyes and whispers into Freddie's ear. "Not a suspect. I was here at the station during the murder. None of my letters insinuated anything and I had no finances to hire anyone, I've been thoroughly investigated and was cleared. Completely"

"Thank God."

Freddie finds himself grinning from ear to ear, he makes eye contact with both Brian and John, giving them the good news too.

Roger only pulls away when Officer Leonard pointedly clears his throat for their attention.

He is dressed in his usual unfirm and like them, seems to run on caffeine and adrenaline rushes. Not looking good for a man his age. He takes off his cap in greeting, followed by Larry Jones, who simply, nods. 

"We can imagine these must have been a very stressful time for the four of you, but we have gotten the report from the Scottish deputy and they are still avidly collecting evidence and working on the case there." Officer Leonard explains in a gruff, not hopeful tone. "There is nothing else for us to do, but wait. We would prefer to keep you in the witness protection program, at least until the end of the trial."

"That's fine," Roger speaks for all four of them, John looks like he might protest, ask why, but he stops himself when he sees the determination on Roger's face. "Thank you."

Officer Leonard squeezes his eyes shut. Larry Jones, hums. "It's our job." 

"I know." Roger says, again, but slower this time. "Thank you."

"You are welcome. And go home, all of you, get some decent rest, and enjoy some of the restrictions we will be lifted due to the change of events." Officer Leonard says.

Freddie won't wait around for them to change their minds. He grabs Roger by the elbow and tugs, trying not to let the joy showed on his face too much when he starts to make his way to the exit again, less than thirty minutes since entering the building. "Thank you, officers!" He calls over his shoulder, first to check if Brian and John are following, and then for politeness.

The two men are nodding, looking exhausted and tense.

Oliver is still pale and a nauseous colour sticks to his skin. He smiles, despite all that and waves them off all the way until they are out of sight. 

Freddie drags the door open for them and Roger all but runs outside into the fresh and open air. John is the next, and lets his hand linger over Freddie's upper arm when he passes. Brian just smiles.

The air is completely different now. A rush of relief has flooded the tension away, making way for smiles, giggles and when they are sure the exit door is shut and there is nobody else on the secluded parking lot, a long, languid exchange of bone-melting and skin flushing kisses is exchanged between them. Freedom fresh on their lips. 

An unspoken sigh of release. 

★☆★

Freddie feels his heart sink into his boots at the first glimpse he gets of Winnifred. He first pities her, and then Roger, who has to see his mother walk into the visitors' room wearing a grey and blue prisoners uniform with a number sewn on the chest. 

They both rise up from their chair to greet her.

Roger is physically restraining himself from reaching out to touch her. He keeps his arms pressed stiff to his sides, held taut like a plank. 

Winnifred also sees his best efforts and smiles knowingly when she comes into ear range. 

"Hello there beautiful boys." Her frown completely smoothens out and she stops right in front of them, looking mostly over at Roger and scanning him down swiftly. "I heard the news, of course. I assume that's why you're here and able to visit. I'm not sure if I should ask if you're okay."

"I'm fine." Roger breathes. 

Freddie glances sideways at him, trying to detect a lie, but he doesn't. 

Roger is completely transfixed with his mother and offers her the seat opposite of them. They all sit down. The Taylors place their hands flat on the table, only a mere centimetre apart. 

The overseeing guard is watching them like a hawk. Touching between inmates and visitors is strictly forbidden.

"Are you sure, it must have been such a shock, Rog?"

The doubt Freddie felt before now shines in Winnifred's eyes. She is aching to touch her son, it has been weeks since they last saw each other in person and her concern for Rogers wellbeing is beyond justified. Roger has been completely depended and devoted to Richard since being sixteen years old. Even if he doesn't want to be affected by his death, he will be. 

"I am okay, I'm confused, I suppose. I'm not sure what I feel and what I'm allowed to feel."

Roger wriggles his nose in thought. 

Freddie smiles kindly and offers him comfort by leaning his knee against Roger's leg under the table, where none of the other visitors will notice them touching. 

"You are allowed to feel whatever you want." Freddie surprises them both for speaking up. "He terrorized you, but you used to love him. Nobody will judge you for what you feel."

"I'm sure you are relieved." Winnifred says tentatively. Testing the waters. "He is gone for good now."

"Yes. I do feel utterly relieved he can't hurt you anymore, or Clare or anyone."

Rogers face morphs into an uncontrollable amile, but he quickly drops his face before they can see it. 

"I shouldn't be smiling, a man is dead."

"A terrible man." Freddie offers under his breath. Winnifred snorts. 

"Roger, I am very glad to see that you are smiling. It means that you're wrapping your head around the reality of this situation. He won't come back and you won't have to pray in the hopes that the police will be able to lock him away long enough so we can live in peace." She then, tentatively brushes her index finger against Rogers. 

It is the smallest of all touches and anyone, not 100% focused on them, wouldn't notice.

It causes Roger to break out into another one of his boyish smiles that shows off his teeth. He is beaming, openly, the release of tension so evident in his relaxed shoulders and lacks face, that it rubs off on Freddie and he finds himself melting into the back of his chair. 

"He suffered, a lot." Roger adds a moment later. "I don't know who did it, but the police they said he suffered a lot."

Freddie is unsure how he personally feels about the satisfaction in Roger's voice, but he can't blame him for gaining a sense of closure in the fact that Richard finally paid, one way or another. 

"They have no leads then? No clue who did it?"

"The police in Scotland is all over the case, but the officers here weren't too hopeful, really. They are likely chalking it up as another incident related to gang violence and revenge."

Rogers smile drops when he regains control over his facial muscles again. 

He sighs thoughtfully, looking at his mother with those doe hooded eyes, giving her all of his attention. 

"I don't know, sometimes I'm relieved and other times, I just feel hollow in my chest. Like I don't know what to fill it up with. My life revolved around him and now he's just gone. One of the last things he said to me was that he was the only one who ever cared for me. And I believed that, once."

"But it's not true." Freddie interrupts curtly. "I care, Deacky cares, Brian cares, your mum cares and Clare— she cares."

Roger offers him a short smile, that is only the tilt of the corner of his lips. "I know that now. But for many years, he was all I had."

"It will feel weird for a while, maybe for a long time." Winnifred offers calmly, forcing both boys to look at her again, "But every day it will matter a little less, until one morning you will wake up and he won't be in your head anymore. It won't be tomorrow and perhaps not the week after, but you will keep filling your life up with people who matter, people who are true and honest and full of love, one day there will be no more room for him at all."

When Roger is stunned silence, Freddie picks up the conversation by offering Winnifred a respectful nod. "Wonderfully put."

"The older the wiser, and all that. Now Roger mentioned in one of his letters that you are writing music. Are you a band of some sorts now?"

"To be a band we need a name. And that we cannot settle on." Freddie huffs. 

Winnifred chuckles and they easily change the conversation over to music, until twenty minutes later a guard in a blue uniform comes up to their table to pick up Winnifred and they are forced to separate ways for the time being. 

But in the car ride home, Roger is singing along to the radio and tapping his fingers onto the steering wheel while he drives. There is more colour to his cheeks and Freddie knows that with every visit and every bit of normality, Roger will become his joyous self again, which is all he could ever hope for.

★☆★

"Darlings! I have a wonderful surprise."

Freddie waits impatiently for Brian and John to put their respective books down to give him their full attention. John quirks up a curious eyebrow and tips his chin to the door. 

"What did you do to Rog?"

"Nothing!" Freddie yelps, but Roger begins to laugh from behind the door. "It's a good thing, I promise."

"Alright, let's see it then."

Brian closes the book after dog-marking the corner and puts it on the bedside table to give Freddie his much appreciated full attention. 

John is still obviously sceptical, but Freddie knows for a fact that he did well this time. 

He is holding the doorknob in his hand, ready to swing it open after alerting Roger. "Ready Dear?"

"Ready!"

"Behold," Freddie can't help the giddy smile that spreads across his face. He stretches out his free arm, before swinging the bedroom door open with a loud declaration, "The new Roger." 

The _new_ Roger is not very new at all, but it is nonetheless a delight to see Brian and Johns faces lit up when Roger bounces into the room with an equally excited grin, showing off his now back to normal, golden blond head of hair. 

"I'm me again!" 

Brian cheers and clasps his hands together in delight.

John has a more upfront reaction and pulls Roger onto the bed by his shirt. "I'm assuming you— hm!"

Roger is cut off when John pushes his lips against Rogers and their teeth clash in the sudden contact. Roger hums, eyes widening before closing completely. John pulls Roger into his lap, covering himself in Roger. 

Freddie does not miss the way John runs his hands through Rogers blond hair possessively. Tugging when Roger needs to angle his head to deepen the kiss.

Like himself, Brian is watching the little show with immense interest. 

Freddie approaches the bed slowly, feeling himself twitch in his underwear deliciously, especially knowing how he and Roger had been playing with each other while washing the remains of dye and bleach out of his hair. They had stayed in the shower much longer than necessary, using up all the hot water in progress. 

Despite having already cum once, he feels himself harden at the sight of John going wild on Rogers new, old hair colour. 

He'd thought the exact same when seeing Roger transform back into himself in the bathroom mirror, fogging while Roger had been showering, firstly all by himself, until he cautiously invited Freddie to join him when the dye was taken care of. 

"Hm, is that why you two were gone for so long?"

Brian has crawled up to press against John from behind, he is looking straight at Freddie, while caressing his hands mindlessly over Johns body, tugging at his shirt and pressing his long elegant fingers into his sides. 

Freddie is the only one standing now and it takes all of his willpower not to whip out his cock now and demand _someone_ suck it. 

Instead, he looks at Brian, feigning calmness he doesn't truly posses with all the blood rushing south. 

"Roger and I had a little fun in there. Didn't we Rog?"

"Hm?"

John lets go of Roger long enough for him to twist around and blink up heavily at Freddie. Still riding on the same high as his orgasm before. His lips are bruised and swollen from being kissed full. His hair is a wild mess, and will be tangled again by the end of this session.

Freddie steps close to the bed, and puts a hand on Roger's shoulder, to press him even closer against John's chest. 

"Tell John and Bri about what we did in the shower together."

John's eyes have grown from lustful to dark in a split second. He zeroes in on Roger and tugs one hand under his ass, keeping him as close as he can without actually physically putting Roger on his cock. 

"Tell me."

Roger licks his reddened lips, his skin is flushed with arousal. 

"We fingered each other under the shower, Freddie and I. Until we both came." Roger admits in a soft, unashamed tone that edges on self-satisfied and longing. 

He pushing himself into a sitting position, giving Brian some eye-contact too, knowing how wild that drives him. 

"But I am so empty now. Fred, aren't you empty too?"

Freddie's throat is tight. Suddenly he thinks that if he doesn't touch his cock soon, it will explode in his pants. 

He swallows thickly and lays his eyes on John. "Yes."

He pushes one knee up on the bed and wriggles himself in the space next to Roger, to gain access to John too. He gets up close to his face, so he can feel the heat radiate from his skin. 

"But luckily, we have two boyfriends who are very willing to fill us up. Isn't that right?"

"Right." Roger muses, still looking at Brian.

Somehow it is settled then without even a word being exchanged. 

Roger climbs into Brians lap, a moment later, but only to start clawing at his shirt for it to come off. He pushes Brian back onto the bed, and Brian goes willingly, allowing Roger to control the pace and pressure. Only a moment later, Roger starts grinding his thong covered ass onto Brians obvious erection. 

The sight is maddening, seeing Roger bounce perfectly in Brians lap, holding onto his shoulders with both trust and lust playing equal partnership in their coupling. 

Roger pushes his lips against Brians hard. Making him moan soundly into the unexpected kiss.

Now that Johns lap is free, Freddie falls into it with grace and ease. 

He drapes himself over John to get him in the same position as Brian. John gives in almost instantly, but where he is gentle he compromises by groping Freddie's ass through his underwear. His fingers prodding where Roger's fingers had just been. As if to check if Freddie truly is stretched enough for this. 

John hums appreciatively when he pushes Freddie's flimsy underwear to the side to push one finger inside. 

Lucky for Freddie, lube is still leaking out of him, and the touch only sends pleasure jolts to the rest of his body when John gently tests the sensitive outer line of his entrance. 

"Deacky," Freddie sighs, and drops his forehead against Johns. "Fuck. I'm ready."

"Let me make sure." John shushes him.

Freddie huffs, but deep down, his heart swells for truly knowing how caring John is. He allows John to prod into him with his index finger, pepper his face with kisses when the one digit obviously is not enough to get Freddie's pleasure to peak. 

"Roger played so well with you, I must say."

"He was very eager." Freddie breathes out a chuckle against johns cheek. "The feeling was mutual."

"You're both so cheeky. I can't believe you two were touching each other in the other room while Brian and I were waiting for you, you know, I shouldn't even be giving you what you want. I should punish you."

Before John can live up to his threat, Freddie clenches around his finger desperately, until John gives in and instead adds a second. 

"You're a brat." He accuses in a low hum. 

There is no heat behind the words, only desire. 

Freddie grins and grounds his hips down, forcing Johns fingers all the way in, still with immense ease. It surprises John, somewhat, but he is unaware of how thorough Freddie and Roger had been in there. Murmuring sweet nothings to filthy talk about putting their whole fist in there, something that even Freddie's ears turned red from. 

"Deacks," Freddie is still smiling when he taps Johns arm to bring his attention to his face, rather than his ass. "Dear, I am sufficiently stretched, _please_. I need you."

John bites the inside of his cheek. With his fingers still inside of Freddie, a third circling his entrance waiting to join the other two. 

He turns his head sideways to look at Brian and Roger.

Freddie does the same, despite the pleasant but distracting stimulation. 

Roger and Brian are in a familiar state as Freddie and John with Roger in Brians lap, rubbing Brians now bare cock between his lubed cheeks. Their underwear is discarded on the floor, long forgotten. 

Rogers cheeks and ears are perfectly pink and his hair that falls over his shoulder in wavy strands work as a halo to emphasize the beauty of his face. 

Brian is also terribly aroused, his cock is drooling cum between Rogers cheeks where it is being rubbed relentlessly. His eyes are hooded, but not closed like Rogers, so he can look at him while with almost-black eyes. His curls are bouncing on the pillows with every rhythmic movement of their hips. 

"You two look really good." John swallows thickly to break the silence.

Roger blinks his eyes open and stares at John through obviously blurred vision. He doesn't stop moving his hips, not once, not pausing. A drummer at heart. 

"You are one to talk." He says airily. Struggling to breathe and exercise at once. "Freddie can handle another one, you know. He can handle your cock." He informs John, which makes John grin. 

He moves his fingers deeper into Freddie, giving him a sense of fullness, all three of them now pressed inside and nearly brushing over his prostate. But John avoids it carefully. 

"What about you? Think you can handle Brians cock?"

"Yes," Roger says without a pause. He throws his head backs and moans obscenely when he grinds down harder onto Brian, making his own cock bob against his stomach needily. "Yes, I can."

Freddie feels hot all over. It is a good thing John is avoiding his prostate, because seeing Roger frenetic and openly aroused is perhaps the hottest thing Freddie witnessed to this day. 

They have done all sorts of things together that have led up to this point, all types of sexual activities, so much that now, the first time one of them gets to have sex with Roger, it doesn't feel like that big of a deal. Not a hurdle, not something that grips Freddie's heart with anxiety like he feared it would. 

He feels relaxed and most importantly, excited. 

Not a worry clouds his mind when he grasps for Roger's hand on the bedding and grips it tight in his own, intertwining their fingers. 

Roger fixes his eyes on him now, looking aroused and trusting. 

"You sure?"

Instead of answering verbally, Roger pulls Freddie a close by their linked hands and forces him into a hot and wet kiss, licking into Freddie's mouth with a languid moan, rolling his hips happily down on Brians. And just like that, they are starting up again. 

John is pushing his fingers in and out of him, pressing lightly against his prostate for the first time, making Freddie jolt and his thighs weak. 

"Hm!" He moans against Rogers relentless lips. 

He isn't surprised when John wriggles his fingers out moments later, after ensuring Freddie is indeed well stretched and lubed up from his session with Roger. 

Then John's hands get a grip on his hips, his thumb bruises against the sensitive skin underneath his hipbone. With his tight grip, John moves Freddie's body upwards. As soon as he catches on, Freddie grounds his knees on the bed to help John lift him up and position him.

Freddie's mouth pops open in leisure when he feels Johns cock brush against his entrance, before, with Johns help, he slowly lowers himself onto the thick shaft. 

The whole time Roger continues to press sloppy kisses to Freddie's open lips, making soft, sexy noises that fill the bedroom.

Freddie slowly gets seated onto John. 

They take their time, like this. John always feels so much bigger when he is on top. 

By the time Freddie's ass meets John's hips, his thighs are spread apart and his cock is standing proud in the hair between them. One of his hands is still attached to Roger, but the other goes straight to John's hip to steady himself. 

He is full, in every sense of the world. 

Sweat rolls down his back, Johns cock is thick and throbbing inside of him and beside him, Roger has gone silent with a gasp of pleasure, when he too lowers himself onto Brians cock whilst gripping Freddie's hand. 

Everything about the moment is full and fulfilling. 

Out of all three of them, Brian is the first to make a noise, a long low whine that sends John into a breathy chuckle. 

But Freddie makes him pay for teasing Brian. He grounds his feet and knees, and brings himself up, only to sink down onto John again, clenching around him hard. 

John is instantly shut down, his eyes roll back into his head and he groans. 

Brian is in a very similar state, with how Roger is starting to bounce up and down his cock without much of a pace, simply testing the waters, clenching and unclenching, his eyes delicately shut and his mouth popped open in a permanent 'o'. 

If he feels half as good as Freddie does, with Johns filling cock pressed all the way into the most sensitive place inside of him, he knows that Roger is doing alright. 

"This is great." Roger squeezes his hand, as if he was reading Freddie's mind. 

The room is as hot as a steam sauna. Freddie reopens his eyes to see Rogers hair sticking to his forehead and his cheeks glistening with sweat. Freddie can't help but ground down on John a little harder at the sight. 

"Why didn't we do this before?" Roger gasps, on a particularly nice thrust, and grinds back down again almost instantly, giving Brian the sensation of a lifetime. "I've never felt so good."

"We can do this every day-- any day." Freddie chuckles while he bobs up and down, grinning. "We never have to leave this room."

They continue to chuckle, until their lips find each other again in a strained kiss, their backs and necks stretching unnaturally to reach each other, but it is worth it. Feeling Roger slack and wanting against him. 

However much Freddie likes to hold a rhythm, like Roger he gives up soon, he wishes he could stay on Johns cock, rooted there forever, but he knows that is not an option.

Instead, he keeps riding him frantically, trying to get as much stimulation from the cock inside of him as he can. Every point of his body is on fire and hot with it, the need to release and feel more. Every nerve is singing and every inch of his skin prickles. 

At some point, while Freddie is still working up and down Johns dick with his own thighs burning from the exercise, John takes a grip on his cock.

Freddie can't remember the last time he had cum that fast. Perhaps when he was still an adolescent. 

But the steady grip around his aching erection, combined with the string of long and needy moans coming from a frantically bouncing Roger, all but forces Freddie to grind down hard on Johns cock and let him press up against his prostate long enough to send every ounce of blood south and for his cock to shoot its release all over Freddie's and John's chests. 

He keeps moving, despite the cramps in his thighs, moving up and down to ride out his orgasm and force John to his own. 

With his eyes closed, he can't see anything, but he knows John is cumming when he clenches down for the final time and a sudden flood of warm thick release fills him up. Accompanied by a happy moan, long and high for Johns standard.

Freddie chuckles breathily and then stays down, grounded on Johns still quivering cock inside of him. 

He is barely recovered, barely able to breathe again, electricity is still coursing through his body and every nook of his head is blissfully blank aside from the sheer joy of pleasure.

Still, he manages to pry his eyes open in time to see Brian take a grip of Roger's hips, ground his legs onto the bed and thrust his own hips up hard to thrust sharply into Rogers flushed, shaking body. 

"I'm close. I'm so close." Brian is muttering, moaning, almost biting through his lip trying very hard not to cum yet before Roger has. 

From the looks of it, Roger is not very far away, he looks even more unravelled than before, giving the true image to 'fucked out'. His eyes are shut in ecstasy and Freddie would have thought he was already cumming if it weren't for his cock, still bouncing along with him rapidly, hard and drooling cum almost constantly. 

Taking mercy on the couple, Freddie lazily reaches out and wraps his hand around Rogers weeping cock, giving it one, then two gentle strokes, just enough to feel it throb between his fingers, before Roger mewls prettily, and releases himself in Freddie's hand.

"There you go, such a beautiful boy." Freddie is grinning. He tries not to twitch too much with John still rapidly softening inside of him, but he still stretches out to kiss Roger on the cheek.

"We love you, Roger. You're so good for us. You are perfect for us."

Roger is still trying to bounce up and down while he is being flooded with praise, but Freddie can tell he is doing a very sloppy job of it, but it is just enough with some effort on Brians part, to send the last one of them over the edge too. 

They stay like that for a long moment, simply basking in the heat of the room and each other's bodies. 

Nobody makes a move for a long time, not even when Brians orgasm has long faded too. 

From experience, Freddie knows their cocks must be hurting with overstimulation now. 

When he climbs off of John, he gives him a fair warning with a tap to his thigh. John still croaks out a curse, arm slung over his face when Freddie flops down next to him and roll over to bury his face into his arm. 

Beside them, the bed rustles, and Freddie hears Brian grunt and then hiss.

Roger is not doing any better, making a soft noise of disappointment until a wet sound marks their detachment. 

Freddie has his eyes closed and his body pressed flush against Johns, on top of the sheets. He expects Brian and Roger to be in the same state. His entire body is made of jelly after a good, quick fuck like this. Every muscle will be aching tomorrow, but tonight Freddie will sleep like the dead for the first time in days. 

He assumes the others are in a similar state, but he is surprised to find the side of the bed dip and Roger climbing out. 

Alarmed, Freddie reopens his eyes and pushes himself up to see what is going on. 

He first has to rub the haze out of his eyes, but even through that, he can see Roger naked form stagger around the room, back turned to them. Cum is running down his thigh, Freddie feels the same happening to him, but they both know full well john or Brian are perfectly able to fix them a towel afterwards. 

His alarm bells are ringing earnestly now, it was Rogers first time having sex with them, after all. 

"Dear... Is everything okay?"

Roger is rummaging through one of the top drawers in the wooden chest close to the door where he keeps his underwear and special belongings. 

It is a place over privacy, where he also stores his journal and his songbook, pictures, letters. 

Roger casts a quick look over his shoulder, reassuring with a quick smile that he is fine. 

"Yes. I am."

"Well, come back to bed." John murmurs, before yawning. Next to him, Brian makes an affirmative noise, also sounding half asleep. "Everything else can wait until tomorrow."

His back is turned to them again. Freddie can relax somewhat now, after having seen the easy smile on Roger's face, an aftermath from the mindblowing orgasm. He can lay back and appreciate the swell of Rogers ass and the flex of his shoulder blades. 

He stops rummaging in the drawer when he encounters whatever it is he needs. He pauses, as if to check, and then turns back to them with a barely contained grin.

"I have one more surprise."

He is holding a plain envelope, white and unmarked other than having his name scribbled on it. 

John and Brian have to pull themselves out of their sleepy haze to understand what's going on. John is rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and Brian is already forcing himself to sit up completely against the headboard. 

"I am confused— should we be worried?"

"No," Roger promises. He approaches the bed slowly and sits down at the foot of the bed. The envelope held in his lap, though obviously previously opened. "No, this is, crazy. So don't freak out."

Freddie is sitting upright too now, eyeing the parcel suspiciously. 

"What is it?"

Roger fiddles with the edges and then clears his throat, forcing the words out when Freddie sees him struggle with finding the right thing to say. 

"This was sent to me, the day after Richard was found dead. It didn't say who sent it, but it came with a short note." 

Instead of opening it, he hands the package over to John, who is closest to him and is already extending his hand to take it. 

Freddie's eyes nearly pop out of his head when John pulls out a stack of banknotes out of the envelope. 

Brian is gaping at Roger, asking, "What did the note say?"

"Like your life, it's yours now."

★☆★

_"Sit down, Roger."_

_Roger levels Officer Leonard, who takes a seat on the corner of Larry Jones' desk with his eyebrows knit together in concern._

_Doing as he's told, Roger slowly lowers himself into the chair opposite the desk. He tries not to let it show on his face, but his heart is hammering in his chest._

_"Am I in trouble?"_

_The two officers exchange a glance, which does nothing to set Roger at ease. There is no reason to assume he is cleared for Richards murder. He knows he has nothing to do with it, but any shred of evidence against him could cost him his freedom forever. How much of a nuisance Richard was to the system, murder would not be tolerated._

_His mind drifts to the call he made with Crystal. He starts to sweat._

_"We needed to talk to you, it won't be very pleasant."_

_"... Alright." Roger shifts in his seat._

_He tried wriggling his toes in his shoes, but it was not enough. Not with both of them staring at him with the same intensity. He shifts until he can fold his legs and bounce the one supporting the other. Bobbing his entire body with the motion._

_Officer Leonard exhales and flares out his nostrils._

_He blindly reaches for a brown folder laid shut on Larry Jones' desk._

_"You're not in trouble. Not really." He meets his eye, before extending the folder out to Roger. "These are the crime scene pictures. You might want to take a look, but you don't have to."_

_Roger hesitates before accepting the stack of papers. "I don't have to identify him?" He asks first with a hint of suspicion in his voice._

_Larry Jones shakes his head. "His fingerprints match the ones we took of him while he was in custody."_

_"Oh."_

_"Yeah, oh." Larry Jones gives him a hard look. "Besides his hands, not much of him was left by the time we got tipped off by an anonymous caller."_

_"That is a fair warning. We wanted to allow you to have the choice, whether you wanted to see it or not." Officer Leonard adds gruffly._

_Roger decides to take the brown folder from him, when the officer's hand begins to tremble._

_It is heavier than he anticipated at first, but that might be the symbolic weight too._

_In his hands it feels strange, the texture is rough like recycled paper rather than the refined kind. He drops it on his lap and decides in that same second that he will grow to regret it, if he doesn't see Richard for himself one last time. Possessing no other photos or real memorabilia from him, other than the scars he bears and the memories he carries around like lead to his feet._

_He opens the folder and is instantly met with the gruesome image what appear to be the remains of feet contrasting against the porcelain bath it's gathered in._

_The sight of it is repulsing and forces a wave of nausea over Roger instantly._

_Behind him, he can hear Oliver gag too._

_Most of the flesh had rotten away, leaving bloody burn marks all the way to the bone. There is blood too, everywhere and a thick white liquid seeping into the wounds._

_Roger covers his nose and mouth. The image itself seems to produce a foul smell._

_"What is that?" He asks the officers without looking away._

_"Bleach, the labs have concluded. Used to torture the victim, but also to mask any marks left by the killer." It is clever, Roger thinks. A clever killer._

_He turns the page and is confronted with another equally revolting picture of Richards body, in the same state as his feet. He had been mostly naked, if he had any clothes the fabric has mostly melted away or into the rotten skin._

_He goes to the next page. Then the next._

_Roger keeps browsing, from one vile, absolutely sickening image to the next. Until he finds what he was looking for._

_His hand drops from his face, impulsively. And drops onto the page._

_If his eyes widened any further they might fall out of their sockets. With his index finger, he traces the line of Richard's throat, where it was stabbed, what seems to have been multiple times._

_Blood that had been dribbling down his neck and chest has now dried into a disgusting paste. His eyes are wide open and glaring unfocused into the void._

_Roger knows that even in his last moments, Richard had suffered without finding peace._

_"There is still something we need to discuss." Officer Leonard mentions off-handedly when Roger shuts the folder. He did it slowly and hands it back to the officer even slower._

_Roger has to blink rapidly to look at Officer Leonard and not see Richards dead unblinking eyes staring back at him._

_"Yes?"_

_"Two things, actually." Larry Jones buts in. He holds up his hand and shows Roger two fingers. "One, after a thorough investigation, we will clear you as a suspect."_

_He waits for a reaction, and when Roger does not give him any, he huffs._

_"We searched your letters, read them all back to see if there was any indication you were planning on doing this. We interviewed the officers in charge of escorting you to the hospital. We checked the odometers on your cars, to make sure you had not travelled to places other than the station and the country house. Besides, you wouldn't have the money."_

_"We felt confident to say, you were not involved with the murder." Officer Leonard finishes for him._

_Relief sets in and Roger releases a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He gives the officer a short, but a real smile._

_"Thank you."_

_"Only doing our jobs." Larry Jones says, but shuts up after a look from Officer Leonard, who turns back around and gives Roger a very serious look one that makes Roger belief he really should not be feeling relieved._

_"There was something that concerned us."_

_Again he reaches for an item on Larry Jones' desk that had not caught Rogers attention until the officer signifies its importance._

_It is a sizable white envelope, seemingly unmarked, other than Rogers name written on the front._

_Officer Leonard holds it up between them with a fierce frown. He and Larry Jones are looking at him like they are trying to solve a riddle, but to their regret, Roger is as clueless as they are on this matter._

_"Was that send for me?"_

_"Yes, but not here. It was found in your letterbox at the countryhouse. As you know, you are not allowed any post, which was highly suspicious."_

_Roger's cheeks heat up with fear. He'd think blood would rush from his face and leave him pale, but instead, he feels a hot flare wash over him. His chest hurts from how hard his heart is beating._

_Officer Leonard is still watching him intently, even when he reaches into the already-opened envelope and pulls out what appears to be a stack of money. He throws it at Roger, Roger barely manages to catch it when it reaches him._

_"We checked it. There was nothing, but one note."_

_Roger holds the money in both hands like one would hold a gold bar. In his life, he had never held so much money._

_"What did it say?"_

_"Like your life, it's yours now." Larry Jones air-quotes. He has a tight look on his face. He has never liked Roger. Especially not now, when something good appears to be happening to him._

_Richard is dead. The killer has sent Roger a stack of money to start from a new beginning._

_Roger's heart is racing. He can only think of one person who would do something like this. Something so clever and selfless. Only one person Roger knows, without any loyalty to the crew and with the physical ability to take someone like Richard on. Hell. The only person in Scotland that Roger knows._

_He can barely contain his grin. He can't believe it._

_Roger blinks rapidly when Officer Leonard hands him the rest of the envelope with a very serious frown on his face._

_"We are keeping this off the records." Officer Leonard announces and adds in a lower voice, "As well as the phone call, but only because I highly doubt you are linked to the murder. I have never heard of a hitman sending money to their client. But listen to me, I don't want any trouble from you. I don't want you to ever mention any of this. You know we still have the power to put you away if we needed to."_

_The threat would have pissed Roger right off on any other day, but today is different, today it makes his heart calm down._

_It seems like a dangerous idea. Giving a heroin-addict more money than they could possibly handle responsibly, but Roger is not stupid enough to voice his critique out loud. Instead, he nods slowly, dutifully._

_"Alright."_

_"Richard Powell was a dangerous man. The streets are a little safer with him gone."_

_Roger toys with the corners of the envelope. His heart is still going haywire in his chest. Containing himself is beyond complex now, the images in his head swerve from Richards mutilated body, to the large sum of money Roger is holding now._

_The joy of the future and trauma of the past meet in a harsh collision._

_Roger thinks maybe he should feel more remorse for Richard, if only for knowing him for the most important parts of his life, but he doesn't and he doubts he could get himself to feel that._

_"I warned you about him. I am glad he was not able to do any harm before— the end."_

_Officer Leonard lowers his eyes and sighs again, nodding gravely. "Upon Richards disappearance, we have gotten testimony from one of the defendants, Andrei. You helped identify him."_

_Roger frowns. "What?"_

_Larry Jones nods. "Uhu, when he heard Richard had disappeared, he was the one who tipped us off that he might be after you. Which is why we put you on strict lockdown then."_

_"But with Richard dead, he is ready to confess." Officer Leonard fills in. "His death seems to have solidified his decision to testify against the crew. We got the message yesterday, after the news of Richards death had reached him."_

_Roger remembers Andrei as a fairly decent man, a little younger than most of the men working for the crew. A little more joyful and less ruined. Less likely to go after girls who didn't like (needed) the attention and always carrying supplies to make their work a little more comfortable. Water bottles, biscuits, lube, condoms and such. He was always willing to make a deal with Roger, lie for Roger when he had to run off to a support group meeting and came back without money to show._

_He is still a scumbag, Roger thinks. Remembers how he was one of the drivers that left Imogen and Janice and many others to die on the sidewalk after the Menon Road shooting. Andrei possessing the only vehicle on the scene._

_Roger had never gotten anything from him for free, always had to pay up with sexual favours that blurred the lines between emotional manipulation and a business change._

_It is good Andrei wants to confess. He will sit his time in jail anyway._

_"I think he would rather be on the right side, than the wrong." Roger answers finally, after a long pause._

_He gets up from his chair and pushes it back against the desk. He puts the envelope with money in his inner pocket from his jacket, tucking it in carefully where nobody could get it from him without his knowing._

_He looks at Officer Leonard, and then down at larry Jones. Each of them has aged a decennium in their few months together._

_While Roger knows they did him a big favour in letting him keep the obviously dirty money and in erasing the call off the record, a call that could not prove anything but that Roger called with someone outside of England (untraceable otherwise), but was still evidence against him nonetheless. The fact remains that he had warned the police about Richard many months ago and that the only reason Richard got his punishment, was because someone else was brave enough to serve justice outside of the legal system. The only reason the police got a confession out of Andrei, was because Richard broke the law for not showing up to court._

_Roger doesn't know who exactly saved his life, maybe Freddie, perhaps Andrei by warning the police to lock Roger down, perhaps Crystal for killing Richard._

_But he knows it was not the police who served him justice._

_"Thank you." Roger says with a looming finality. He turns around to smile at Oliver, a truer smile, that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "I will take my leave now, if that will be all. The others are waiting for me outside."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is Halloween and I have a Halloween fic planned so there will be no Nevermore next week, but you can tune in for my Halloween fic on friday.   
> Next Nevermore will be on the 8th of November ❤️


	41. Of Austerity and Aberration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger takes the stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had. A week. I think we have all had a really weird week and frankly we deserve better lololol. I am on a small mental health break on the tumblr, but I’ll probably be back really soon won’t let myself be chased off. I want to thank everyone for being here and reading with me. I am tired and I bet many of you guys are too, but this is always something that gives me a sense of time and purpose. You guys give me a sense of time and purpose ❤️

Five weeks later, Roger takes the stand. 

The only time he has been to the court prior to this day was on the first day of trial. For the occasion, Roger is put in the same clothes as then. Wearing John's old trousers, a white blouse and the cufflinks Freddie borrowed him. 

He is nervous, but tries not to let it show before John stops the car in the parking lot.

Roger glances in the mirror and watches his face go slack as he consciously smooths the frown from his forehead and straightens his back. The butterflies in his stomach flutter in search of a way out. Roger has to unclench his hand from the door handle. 

"After this, it will be over soon." From behind him, Freddie's arms wrap around him and keep Roger pinned to the passenger seat. He reaches around the headrest to kiss Roger on the cheek. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"That they hardly get any jail time and will avenge the crew by killing me." 

He knows he is being a Debbie Downer. Freddie pinches his side as a teasing warning. "You know that there is no way in hell the worst of the lot are getting out anytime soon. Am I right, guys?"

"It seems highly unlikely." Brian says from the back of the car. 

John just grunts. 

They have gone over this several times with the officers. Besides practising Rogers testimony for the hearing and reading over his statements repeatedly. They have explained what will happen, how it will go, what to look out for and what is likely to be brought up. John had practised answering questions with Roger at home, when Freddie found it too boring and Brian rather upsetting. 

Roger could not be more ready.

On his way inside the enormous courtroom building in the heart of the city, Roger reminds himself confidently of the evidence provided by the found documents during the raids, the testimonies and other victim statements beside his own. 

Andrei has promised the police to take the stand, but that will be in the days if not weeks after Rogers testimony. 

It would have strengthened Rogers' testimony, if Andrei's had come first. 

But an earlier victory had given Roger the confidence to walk straight into the courtroom with his chin held high and his shoulder squared up.

Earlier this week, Monday afternoon at 16:30, Kevin had been sentenced to jail on several accounts, including kerb-crawling (approaching the girls or occasional men in public to ask for sex), sexual assault on several accounts and harassment on more, including a written statement from Roger and others, he got caught on drug usage and distribution. A combination of police investigation including observation of Kevin's house, witness accounts and several many packages of drugs found in his house, has concluded that Kevin was guilty of most of the crimes. 

His jail time, for now, stands at 37 years. After the trial, he was brought straight to prison without a middle-stop. 

This is the clutch Roger mentally grips onto while he and the other three find their way to their seats on the public bench. Brian's shoulder brushes against his on purpose. Roger lightly puts his hand on Brian's shoulder, a silent tap of reassurance. _I'm fine._

They all sit down in silence. Brian is on his left, Freddie on his right and John at the far end beside Brian. 

There is barely any space between them and the defendants in the box beside them. Roger spares them not even a single glance and consciously keeps his chin tilted up at all times. Showing no sign of defeat, nerves or acknowledgement. 

His mother is not there today. 

Her hearing is a couple of weeks down the road, but her lawyer had managed to earn her a separate trial, not to be tried as one with the Bull Crew. A privilege granted to other prostitutes and victims who got caught in the scheme. 

"Hey." Freddie nudges his shoulder. Roger turns to him a little too fast and curses internally at giving his nerves away. Freddie notices too and discreetly lowers his voice so only they could hear each others. "It's alright."

"You'll do great." Brian agrees heartedly and presses their legs together. 

Roger glances at Freddie from under the thick brim of his glasses. Something he had surrendered himself to in case he will need to read evidence out loud during his testimony. "They deserve nothing but eternal punishment. I don't want to be the reason why they get less than what they deserve."

"You won't be. You'll destroy them."

They each turn their necks to glance at John, who had spoken so softly and discreetly, the words whispered from the corner of his mouth, that Roger at first had thought he'd imagined them being said at all. John is not even looking at them. Staring straight ahead at the judge, watching the old wigged man take place in his chair.

Freddie rocks his shoulder against Johns, "Jesus could you stop being so obscure." 

"Just speaking the truth." John says with a hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

Officer Leonard and Larry Jones are seated in the box closest to the judge, with next to them a box with the defendant's lawyers. 

Officer Leonard bothers to send Roger one final look of encouragement, cast discreetly over his shoulder for only them to witness, before turning back in his seat to pay attention to the start of the hearing.

This too, had been part of their elaborate plan to make Roger come through as a credible witness. By not showing any close interaction between the officers and Roger prior to the trial, the jury will consider Rogers words more authentic than scripted by the officers. 

They are not scripted, of course. His words are his own, but he did get the point the officers made when explaining this to him. It shouldn't even been applied that Roger and the police work closely together prior to his hearing to make it seem more genuine. 

Roger takes a deep breath. 

The joy he soars on still, from Kevin's arrest to Richards sudden death, do not ease his nerves enough to make him feel completely ready for what he is about to do. 

Taking the stand will be his final battle against the Crew and his final chance for proper retribution. He will be sitting in the limelight alone, to be photographed and talked about while facing the men who have abused, assaulted and used him for the majority of his adolescence and adult life. 

Roger swallows past the lump in his throat and eerily eyes the glass of water that is propped up on the edge of the empty witness box, next to the judge. 

It won't be long before they call him up to speak. His testimony will be the only one today. 

He will be examined by officer Leonard, before he will be cross-examined by the defendants lawyers. The latter part being the most daunting. It is unknown what they will ask him, but Roger can imagine what they would bring up to him to discredit his persona before the jury and judge as much as possible. Damage his image, which barely is a decent one to begin with. 

"The judge looks like he is talking not only me, but also himself to sleep." Freddie snorts under his breath, mindful of the fact that they are in a large echoing room surrounded by numerous people. 

Brian then pokes Rogers shoulder, looking somewhat nervous himself with the set twitch of his eyelid and tension on his jaw. 

"I think you're almost up."

"Hm."

Roger listens as best as he can force himself to while the judge rattles on, using words Roger can't bother roaming his brain through to try and find the correct definition. 

Every hair on his body is standing up straight and the nerves in his stomach are causing serious cramps. 

He is in danger of throwing up when his name is called. 

"Will witness Roger Meddows Taylor take the stand?"

Instantly a rush of adrenaline courses through Rogers veins and helps him push himself to his feet before his mind can catch up.

He scoots past Brian to the end of the public bench. His lips are moving and he says something, but Roger can't hear it over the soaring in his ears. All the eyes in the room are on him. Roger consciously does not look over his shoulder to the officers or defendants. 

Once he's walked into the open space between the public boxes and the judge, a man in uniform he has not seen before meets him halfway and leads him towards the witness stand.

The man is tall and kind looking. He opens the low door into the box for Roger and gestures for him to sit.

Everyone in the room has gone eerily quiet. Roger tries not to pay attention to the odd whispers and scattered coughing. He hopes nobody else can hear the thundering of his heart. 

Roger smooths the invisible wrinkles out of his trousers when he does sit down.

The man in uniform closes the door behind him and then removes himself from the open space to the side. The floor is now Rogers.

Roger's eyes catch Officer Leonards when the old man pushes himself to his feet. 

It is impossible to read his face with the mask of professionalism hiding any particular emotion. It is essential for the jury, seated to Rogers left, to think they are barely acquaintances. Practically strangers. 

Roger consciously pushes their history to the back of his mind.

In front of him stands not Officer Leonard who would get him to the station at the break of dawn to teach him how to strategically and correctly answer the questions here today.

Today, Officer Leonard is the prosecutor. 

Roger is the witness. 

Officer Leonard approaches the box, he is wearing a brown suit. He gestures at Roger with a passive smile. 

"Please state your name for the record."

There is no little microphone in the corner of the witness box like in some of the American movies John has shown him. Roger scoots forward and states loud and clear that his name is Roger Meddows Taylor.

Pleased by his tone and body language, Officer Leonard continues. "Roger, do you swear by God that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?" 

They practised this one excessively, to the point that Roger was mumbling it in his sleep according to Brian. 

"I swear by God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

"Excellent." He begins pacing in front of the judges and witness stand. Roger's eyes bounce back and forth trying to follow Leonards movement. 

Roger does not want to miss anything Leonards body language might suggest. 

The old man clasps his hands behind his back, head slightly bowed. He is wearing a sincere look on his face. Openly sincere to the point of mockery. Roger knows it is an act. He hopes the jury sees something else. 

He stops pacing to stand in front of Roger. Almost tricking Roger into believing his sincerely too when he looks him straight in the eye. 

"The majority of the people in this room have read your witness account. We will go over the statement you have made again to make sure we have all the details, so don't worry about repeating yourself. And if at any point you need a moment to collect yourself, just say the word."

"Alright." Roger can't help that his voice is much softer now, almost a wisp of a word. 

Officer Leonard had not been keen to represent Roger as a victim in a domestic abuse case, but the role as a victim in general seems to have applied seamlessly in this case nonetheless. 

"Good, well for starters, how do you know the defendants?"

Roger doesn't shift, he makes sure of it. But he can't help but let his eyes flicker over to the jury box where a small group of neatly dressed people are watching him intently. Curiously. 

He clears his throat before he speaks. His throat is dry, but it feels too soon to reach for the water. 

"I knew them from my time with the Bull Crew." 

"What is the Bull Crew?" Roger is certain everyone in this courtroom is well-aware of that, but he does not let his exasperation show. Not at a crucial moment like this, while he is still winning over the jury. 

"It is an organized crime gang. Established in London."

"What sort of organized crimes did you personally witness or know of while being with the Crew?"

"The drugs trafficking, prostitution, occasional robberies and extortion. Violence occurred a lot, while fighting off competition or to keep the workers in check. Those things were the most common." 

Officer Leonard is giving him a long, hard look. Implying as if this were the first time he heard this coming out of Roger's mouth. 

"Hm." He nods slowly. "And what was your role in the Bull Crew?" 

"I was a prostitute." 

A hush falls over the room. Even the frantic reporters pause their frantic scribbling. 

"What else did you do in the Crew?"

"Just prostitution."

Officer Leonard looks away, and puts his hands behind his back. "How did you get involved with the Bull Crew?"

Roger can see the defendant's lawyers debating whether to interfere, to ask for relevance, but Officer Leonard had already warned Roger they would overrule that. The jury would want to know how Roger got this information. 

"My mother was homeless with me, while I was a small child and we had nowhere to go. So she began to work as a prostitute for the Crew."

"How old were you at the time?"

"I was six years old when I started living in Richards apartment with my mother, where we could stay for as long as she worked for him."

"Who is the Richard you are referring to?"

"Richard Powell, the defendant who recently passed away. He used to work for the Crew. He managed a flat filled with prostitutes and myself as a child."

Roger takes note of the glimmer of pride in Officer Leonard's eyes. It helps Roger sit a little straighter. 

"How did you go from living with your mother at the flat to becoming a prostitute yourself?"

"My mother, she disappeared one night when I was sixteen years old. I was told by Richard Powell that she was killed by a rival gang. I was then given the choice to leave the only place I had known as home, while my mother had recently passed away. Or I could stay, but under the same arrangements as my mother. I had to work." 

"Can you state to the court again how old you were when this happened?"

"I was sixteen years old." Roger's throat tightens. He hates the cloak of pity that seems to have draped over him to choke him to an early death. "When I became a prostitute, I became addicted to drugs."

"What drugs did you get addicted to?"

"Heroin."

"How did your addiction start?"

"The Crew offers heroin to working prostitutes." 

Roger had not first understood this strategy Officer Leonard wanted to take on, to bring everything out into the open like that. But now that Roger is here in person, speaking the words out loud to a packed, but enthusiastically listening room, he understands. 

When he tells the story, he comes out looking like a victim of a misfortune fate. With him baring himself like that, there is no grounds for the defendants to twist the narrative by bringing in new information about Roger. He is in control of the narrative. He was a victim of prostitution, not a criminal. 

"Why do you think they offer heroin to the prostitutes?"

This time the defendants' lawyer does interfere. "Objection!"

The judge rubs his chin, before shaking his head. "Sustained."

Officer Leonard is forced to rephrase the question with a huff that only Roger and the judge can hear. 

"Why did you take the offer for heroin?"

"I was very young and grieving my mother." Roger swallows thickly. "At the time it felt good to forget about my life and everyone else around me was doing it. It seemed normal."

"Right, right. That must not have been easy for you at such a young age. A teenager who just lost his mother. What was it like to work for the Crew?"

The question is too broad.

They had discussed this during one of their sessions. Officer Leonard had put the question there on purpose, to give Roger free range to paint a grim image of his time there. 

"You're barely human. You are not seen as a human or treated as a human. I was sixteen when I got branded, all the prostitutes had to be branded on their arm. So people could recognize the gang symbol while we were on the street."

Pictures of the brand marks had already made the papers several weeks ago. It had shocked the public and skyrocketed the case into public interest. 

Roger had tattooed over it, but Janice and others who had only recently escaped the crew still carried the scar and were willing to have their arm photographed if only to spread awareness. 

"It hurt and it meant we could not just leave at any time. Working was very hard too. You had to make quotas and answer to the bosses if you did not make your quota."

"Who was your boss?"

"Richard."

"What did he do if you did not make your quota?" Officer Leonard asks. Roger knows they are on a roll, even though he thinks it is best if the jury gets another look at the administrative evidence the police had found during the raids. There is no pause, there is no time to pause now. Roger's lips move before his brain could stop him. officer Leonard seems grateful for it.

"He would hit you, beat you severely. Withhold dinner or adequate clothing."

"Have you ever been beaten severely by him?"

Roger presses his jaw shut. His face closes up again. He hopes that says enough. 

"Yes."

"In fact, there are pictures of you after one of these beatings as well as a hospital report. Were you admitted to the Royal London Hospital on December the second of 1970, at 4 a.m?"

Officer Leonard is walking back to his and Larry Jones' table to collect a number of papers. The evidence he had already registered with the court. 

He hands it over to the kind man in uniform who had lead Roger to the box previously, who now walks across the room to the judge, to give the evidence of the hospital to the judge. 

It is a copy of the report made in the hospital after Roger had just been brought in by Freddie and Brian. For two agonizing minutes, Roger watches the judge read over his report swiftly, to ensure it is the right one that coincides with the previously provided evidence. 

The judge looks up, over 127 seconds later and gives the report back to the uniformed man with a nod of approval. 

The report is given back to Officer Leonard, who then walks over to Roger and finally puts it in his hands. 

"Could you please read out loud what the doctor has written about you when you just came in?" 

"Yes." 

Roger blinks rapidly at the scribbled words at the bottom of the paper, underneath the unfilled details about the patients. 

"Patient sufferers from a fever of 40.8C°, caused by the infection from untreated cuts on both his arms and a head wound. Patient has been given antibiotics to battle the infection. A blood clot on the left underarm is being treated with heparin. The head trauma has caused a mild concussion. Broken scalp pieces were removed to prevent internal damage. The patient suffers from dehydration and severe malnutrition."

Roger closes the report. He doesn't look up.

"What has caused these injuries?" Officer Leonard asks in a softened tone.

"My heroin addiction is likely to blame for the blood clot. But the other injuries, my head, was caused by Richard after he beat me. The hunger and thirst were part of his neglect."

"What do you mean by his neglect?"

"He was responsible for the prostitutes under his care. We were all underfed, dehydrated, we slept on mattresses on the floor in the flat and did not receive adequate healthcare. My head trauma had gone unchecked for days. The Crew does not like to get involved with the hospital or other government services."

Pictures of Richards apartment had already been put on display several times during the trial, as were the locations of other high ranking bosses. 

"While you worked there you were denied health care?"

"Yes." Roger says without hesitation. "We were told we would be in trouble if we did go."

"For who did these rules count?"

"Everyone who was a simple foot soldier or prostitute. We were not allowed to see anyone unapproved by the Crew, but if Richard or Allan was sick, important people, they were allowed to see medical professionals."

"Why did they not allow you to see medics while you were in a critical state?"

"Because they feared that government officials could tell we were prostitutes or involved with criminal activities and come after the Crew."

Officer Leonard is trying very hard not to gloat at how well Roger is answering the questions he keeps throwing his way. Roger finds himself relaxing, just enough to let the tension escape his shoulders. 

"Was the Crew aware of your injuries at the time?" 

"Yes." Roger says. "I was not suited to take clients in my state."

"Was that an indication that they knew you were severely hurt?"

The defendant's lawyer gets up again. "Objection, leading question."

"Sustained." The judge looks at Officer Leonard pointedly. "No leading questions allowed."

He barely manages not to roll his eyes before he rephrases. 

"Why do you believe you were not forced to work?"

Roger glances at the defendant's lawyer, expecting another objection that doesn't come. He looks back at Officer Leonard and keeps his focus on him.

"I did not have to work, because I was considered unfit at the time due to my injuries."

"Was it usual for prostitutes to get sick days?" 

"No." Roger swallows thickly. "We had to work every day, through every storm, every winter and every flu."

Officer Leonard nods gravely. "You speak of being in the Crew in the past tense. In fact, you have been the one to come to the police and volunteered to us an abundance of information to report the crimes that were happening. Why did you decide to come to the police? After having been a part of the Crew since you were sixteen."

This is the most important question. Roger knows this will be his saving grace for the judges who are disturbed by his history, if not disgusted. 

Roger shifts forward in his seat. His hands are shaking, to mask it he lays the flat on his thighs where nobody can see them. 

"After being treated in the hospital, a friend of mine, the only person I knew who is not in the Bull Crew convinced me to stay with him instead of going back. He helped me go through rehabilitation at a Drug Dependency ward. I haven't had drugs ever since."

"Congratulations."

Roger gives him a tight smile. "Thanks. I stayed with him, afterwards. I tried to live a normal life, but I was scared."

"What scared you?"

"I knew the Bull Crew would be after me, in particular Richard."

"Why did you believe that?" 

"Because of my many years with the Crew I had accumulated a lot of information. Simply by being there. I left the Crew and went off the radar, so they were looking for me."

Officer Leonard walks back to his desk. Larry Jones is already holding out the piece of paper. The same string of contact reoccurs. Leonard hands it to the man in uniform, who gives it to the judge, who then reads it carefully, before giving it back to the uniformed man, who then hands it back over to Officer Leonard.

But instead of giving the paper to Roger, he instead walks over to the jury and holds it up to them. 

He slowly walks down the aisle, makes sure everyone has had a look, before he shows it to Roger last. "Could you describe to everyone what this is?"

The evidence had already been brought up before in court, per Rogers knowledge. Janice was the one to bring this in and explain what it was for and why it was not easy for prostitutes to walk away. 

Roger looks at the picture of himself. It is old and grainy. 

He isn't older than sixteen in there, a very old picture. He is thin and sickly. Underneath is his name noted alongside a price. Dead or alive, it says. 

"A wanted flyer." Roger whispers. 

Officer Leonard had shown him a copy a few weeks back, so Roger would not be shocked seeing it for the first time in court. But the image is still deeply disturbing. Roger finds it hard to believe that used to be him. 

"Of whom?"

"Me."

"Are you aware that several other prostitutes and drug dealers from the Crew have stated here in court that they were asked by their bosses to show these to their clients, hoping for it to take effect?"

"Yes." His voice is thin like a needle's thread. He keeps his face as neutral as he can, but he feels deeply uncomfortable. 

"What effect did this have on you?"

"I was afraid for my life." Roger admits truthfully, while still staring at the black and white picture of his younger self. "I stayed inside for weeks. I tried not to go out, I was afraid the wrong person would see me and harm me."

"How did you end up coming to the police?"

"I saw the news report about the Menom Road shooting on the television. I knew that they were the Bull Crews prostitutes, because I worked on Menom Road for five years myself. I visited the hospitals to identify the bodies of my friends."

"What was that like?"

Officer Leonard lowers Rogers wanted poster. Forcing Roger to blink up at him and into the cold reality of the case. 

"It was the most heartbreaking experience in my life. Many of my friends had died, because they couldn't get away from the gang violence, when I had. I was living in guilt and I knew I had to do something."

"Is that when you came to the police?"

"Objection." The defence shouts from across the room. Roger grits his teeth to keep himself from shouting back for him to fuck off. 

The judge thinks about it for one short moment, before he flicks his hand. "Overruled."

Officer Leonard smiles tightly. "Thank you, your honour." He turns back to Roger.

From the ever-present glister in his eyes, Roger knows that they have done the best they could. He doesn't smile back, knowing it would ruin his credibility instantly. But he sits more comfortably and can unclench his jaw to answer the questions following more fluidly. 

It takes another thirty minutes of bland back and forths with Officer Leonard, before they are finished.

"No further questions, your honour." Officer Leonard announces.

Roger, as well as the rest of the room, turns their heads to stare at the defendant's box, where the two lawyers are having a hushed discussion. 

Officer Larry Jones had predicted this would happen. There will be uncertainty about whether they wanted to cross-examine Roger or not. At this point it is a coin toss. 

They will only try to cross-examine Roger if he could say anything to discredit any of the things he previously stated. If there is an opportunity for them to damage his image and make the Crew seem less dangerous, they would take this chance. 

What they most worry about is them bringing up Rogers relationship with Richard or any of the other Crew members during his time there. 

It would be a sticky subject to touch, considering the age of consent for homosexuals is 21 years old, which would label the majority of their clients not simply as sex offenders, but as paedophiles. 

But the discussion between the lawyers keeps ongoing, the two men looking between each other and their clients rapidly. 

Roger sees Allan there, Frank and Gillian right behind the lawyers. 

Gillian is the one leaning forward between the lawyers' shoulders, speaking in a soft, but noticeably authoritative voice. Despite being the one in prison uniform, still giving around the orders. The lawyers glance at him just in time to see him shake his head solemnly.

The defeat in his old laden eyes unclenches the knot in Roger's stomach. 

The lawyers turn in their seats to make eye contact with the waiting judge. Their faces are grim with disappointment. 

"No further questions, your honour." The first one speaks.

Roger releases the breath he was holding high in his chest. 

★☆★

Time flies at home. 

The time between his witness statement and the final verdict should not be long, according to Officer Leonard. There are still some other people taking the stand, including the defendants. 

Roger tries to put that out of his mind as much as he can. He copes with time as best as he can. 

He spends the days awaiting and anticipating his future, writing music or behind his drums. He writes his journal full when his thoughts become too heavy a burden to carry around in his head alone. He reads all of John's books and gets better at guessing the murderer long before John's scribbled pencil notes between the ink indicate he had. Whenever he can he plays on Brian's guitar to master the instrument. When the constant strumming in his head turns into physical aches, he uses Freddie's bath lotions until he is glowing. At night he rolls around in bed until he finds a body to cling onto. There is always someone there. 

Witness protection rules are cooling down. Once a week he is allowed a monitored visit to his mother, whose case is starting to look brighter if her lawyers' optimistic judgement is correct. Roger is, despite his concerns, hopeful too. 

The easing rules mean Freddie can take Roger into town and try clothes from the local boutique that sells only women clothing. They care not when the small old lady who owns the shop gives them looks when they share a changing room, they've faced worse discrimination. 

Roger sends letters to his sister Clare with occasional stickers or dried flowers, Clare in return sends him drawings back alongside writing in his grandmother's neat curly handwriting transcribing Clare's words. Sometimes he shows them to his mother when he visits her in prison, who receives similar letters weekly. 

He has yet to hear from Crystal. 

The loosening rules are a blessing, for many reasons. The boys get to go to the local pub down the road, the only pub in town and have a couple of beers. They go for hikes, make campfires over the weekends when the clear night sky calls them and Brian points out every constellation by name, looking proud as ever without realizing he whatever he is pointing at, Roger cannot quite tell.

Roger tries to bask in it, tries to find comfort in being out of hell and awaiting his future. If this is purgatory, he cannot imagine the wonders of heaven. 

Nevertheless the end of the trial and the end of the witness protection bring other matters to loom over their heads. Soon they will need to start looking for a new flat to live. That includes finding jobs to afford said flat.

Roger had deliberately given the money he got from Crystal to the Bulsaras and Mays, not only to pay back his debt from Kevin's bribe, but also for the lawyer representing his mum. 

It is a difficult process, finding a place to live without a current budget. 

Roger has seen Brian circle teachers positions in the papers with a red marker. John is likely to be getting back his job as an electrician, but only after promising to them that he won't take up 60 hour work weeks again. Freddie and Roger will likely open a stall again, from scratch this time, considering they had not cleared anything from their last stall before they went into witness protection. God knows what Kevin had done to all their belongings. But Roger tries not to dwell on that, or Freddie's beloved clothes. They had come out of it better than Kevin, who will be spending the better part of his life behind bars. 

There is a lot for Roger to think about. He is happy, excited, overwhelmed, anxious and yearning for what he can taste on the tip of his tongue. 

He writes his journal full and dreams vividly about the future and death, until Brian has to take him into town to buy a new journal and John scolds him for kicking his chins in his sleep. 

Much to his relief, the next Friday he is approved for an authorized phone call. 

"Hey stranger."

Roger covers his face, suddenly overcome with a huge grin. "I can't believe how nice it is to hear your voice."

"No need to flatter me, Roger." Dominique sounds like she is smiling herself, which puts Roger at ease. The boys are sitting in the garden listening to a record. The melody floods through the closed doors to Roger, he takes comfort in knowing they are close by, close enough that he can hear the murmurs of their voices, but far enough that he can enjoy some privacy. 

"How are you doing?" Dominique asks then, sounding more sober and professional. 

Roger twirls the curling phone cord between his fingers. He shrugs, even though Dominique can't do anything without verbal communication.

"I'm--" Roger fumbles with the words.

"Let it out."

Roger exhales. The tension drains out of him with it. "Overwhelmed." 

"That's understandable." Dominique concludes in her careful calculating voice that signals to Roger he is being observed. "Have you been applying your coping skills into your daily routine?"

"Yes I write," Roger drawls out. "I play music, listen to music. I do a lot of counting, especially after nightmares and stuff."

"Good. I am sensing a 'but'."

Roger hesitates then, suddenly realizes how heavy his organs feel inside his chest. He clings onto the phone and shuts his eyes to drown out the murmuring presence of his boyfriends just outside the country house. 

It has been weeks since Richards death. 26 days, to be exact. But Roger isn't counting. 

Crystal is still in Scotland, attends his group therapy meetings at the drug dependency ward there, goes to work and passes all his drug tests, according to Dominique's sources. 

26 days had been more than enough time for Roger to contemplate Richards dead and shove it all the way back to his head. It only took the money and the strange note attached to realize it was Crystal who had committed the heinous crimes Roger witnessed on the crime scene pictures. 

He remembers the last time he saw Crystal and tries to think of him as a killer, but he simply cannot. 

When he thinks of Crystal he sees rolling eyes, shit-eating grins, rough hands and traitorous tenderness. Roger struggles with the revelation, because for many reasons his Crystal is not the Crystal that could have killed Richard like that. But then, his Crystal is the Crystal who would have killed Richard for Roger. He had been there the day Roger broke down in the hospital. He had heard every word Roger could have spoken about his abuse in the blabbering state he had been. At the time Roger had barely noticed the anger that had sparked within Crystal, but the pictures of Richard's mutilated body tell a story of its own. Crystal was not just angry, but he was calculating in the most unspontaneous intelligent manner and had planned out Richards suffering, likely set the stage for it with how the ordeal had gone unnoticed and under the radar.

Roger has yet to associate drug dependency ward Crystal with abusive boyfriend murderer Crystal. In his head, they, for now, remain two individual entities who had played a significant role in his life. 

Perhaps he will be able to fuse the two together once they meet up again, for his eternal gratitude could never be expressed over a letter, or two. 

Or four, in Rogers case. The first to thank him. The second to ask him if he has been in contact with the police. The third had primarily revolved around Crystal's well-being, don't fall back into old habits. Roger had said after he had dreamt of Crystal relapsing because of overwhelming guilt. When it's safe, come home. His fourth letter was one announcing they will likely be moving out soon and that if Crystal wants to contact him he might have to get his new details through Dominique. 

There had been no reply yet, if Crystal did indeed commit the murders he would want to minimise any contact in case the police will start looking into him. 

Roger is patient, really, there is no hurry in his life anymore. Since Richards death and the debt issue being solved, Rogers concept of time had come to a crashing halt. 

The clock revolved over 24 hours. And each of those were to be filled in by Roger and his own will. Everything that hung over his head was now only a matter of time before it would resolve itself. This had been a privilege Crystal had granted to him when he killed Richard, one of the many small privileges Roger could never have known he missed, before the very core of those issues had been wiped clean from the earth. 

Roger is overjoyed, alongside overwhelmed. He is confused and he struggles to wrap his head around all these different things at once. How Crystal could have done it, why the consequences had been so great so immediate as if Rogers world had still been revolving around Richard, why Roger is not feeling as bad as Freddie is expecting he should. His nightmares are not about Richards suffering, but about him coming back, the police going after him or his boyfriends, he fears what the trauma might do to Crystal and he worries it would affect the court case negatively. He does not dream about Richard. 

He feared he'd feel sympathy for Richard, a lot of it. He feared he'd want closure of some sort, have the final word in. 

But overwhelmed as he is, Roger is overjoyed. When your therapist boyfriend expects you to fall into a depression or heroin relapse, feeling fortunate seems like the wrong emotion to choose. 

He should be upset that Crystal killed someone, but he isn't. He's worried for Crystal.

He should be upset that Richard was killed without trial, but he isn't. He's relieved. 

He should be upset that the most prominent person in his adolescent life was taken from him without closure, but he isn't. He's content. 

Roger realises he has been quiet for a long time now. Over the phone, it is slightly more awkward to step back into the conversation when in real life he would have made eye-contact to signal he's going to speak.

"Dom?"

"Yes, Roger?"

"Can I be happy over someone's death?" Roger asks followed by a sharp inhale. He shuts his eyes tight, waiting for the hesitation, the confusion, the concern, perhaps even a scolding about the regards of human life.

None of that comes, in fact, Dominique replies instantly. "Yes."

"No." Roger shakes his head, interrupting her. "No, not just happy, but overjoyed. And relieved." His breathing shudders along with his words. "I'm so relieved."

"Yes that's allowed— Roger, that's allowed."

Roger swallows thickly. He is clutching the phone harder than he should. 

"Is it? Because everyone is expecting me to break down or go on a heroin spree. I feel like neither. It is gone now, all the tension, all the constant fear and dread— I lived in terror for years. It is all gone now. I'm happy. But a human being is dead." He groans in frustration when he struggles to articulate himself. "... He died so— brutally. He was in tremendous pain and I don't care. I care so little that I am afraid my boyfriends will find my journal and read it and think I'm some psychopath. I write for hours thinking about my future, I write how scared I am that they accuse someone close to me of his death, but about him personally, I don't feel anything."

"Roger—“ 

"I feel emotions, I do. I just don't care as much about him as I care about my friends and my family."

"Roger?"

Roger shuts his mouth immediately. Realizing with a heavy exhale that he has been ranting without stopping even to breathe. 

"Sorry." He huffs his hair out of his face. "I'm sorry. It's been on my mind for a while now."

"There is no need to apologize. There is also no reason to label you as a psychopath, that is a much more complicated diagnosis than 'not being sad over the death of my abuser'. Do you understand me?"

She sounds very serious now and speaks in that firm absolute voice that slips into her french accent more than once. 

The knots in Roger's stomach unclench somewhat at her words. More secure than anything he has heard in a long time. 

"If anyone calls you a psychopath for enjoying the freedom you have gained from this, then that person should go fuck right off. Your life matters and the quality of it matters."

"Nobody has actually called me a psychopath but myself." Roger admits after a long pause. "I don't know what the appropriate way to react is. Neither do the other boys, they are afraid my hesitation means I am fragile, or sad because of his death and the trial. I am not, I am scared they will think I have no feelings or regard to human life. I do."

"Why do you think they would think that?"

"They are expecting me to be miserable, they always look at me strangely when I am enjoying myself as if nothing is wrong. I'm not miserable, I am constantly having to tone myself down while we are finding apartments or watching a movie or doing anything really, anything normal. It's like I am not affected enough."

"Are they fearing you are miserable or are they hoping that you are?" Dominique asks. 

Roger again doesn't care if she can't see him shrug. "Certainly they don't hope for me to be miserable... So I guess they are scared that I am." Roger rolls his eyes up at the ceiling, knowing full well that he is an absolute moron. "...Fuck."

Dominique sounds smug. Roger can't say he didn't miss even that. "So many world problems would be solved if men just learned how to speak to each other, with words."

"Yeah, yeah." Roger drags his palm across his face. He understands the message. "I'm an utter idiot."

"All men are, honey. Don't feel bad, now tell me more about your nightmares."

★☆★

"I confess."

Rogers eyes widen when Andrei's sharp gaze finds him across the courtroom. Tears well up in the corner of his eyes when his lawyer clears his throat. Suddenly, the foot soldier looks a lot more his age. "Excuse me?"

"I confess." Andrei repeats in the same hollow tone. "To all the charges pressed against me. I wish to give witness statements on the things I have seen in my seven years with the Crew. Many of which will be in compliance with the statements made by victims of the Crew."

"Is he being serious?"

Freddie grips Rogers thigh to get his attention, but Roger can't tear his eyes away from Andrei's constant stare. 

He blindly grasps for Freddie's hand, who immediately interlaces their fingers together so they are aligned palm to palm. 

It is near impossible to blink in this surprising fixated state. 

Andrei's confession had been planned for weeks, months now at this point. Roger wonders why the lawyer is so taken aback, why he himself is so overawed by the admission.

"He is serious. He just said that." Brian murmurs from his left. He leans over to speak to John and Freddie when Roger is unresponsive. He is not the only one speaking, the rest of the courtroom falls into a series of murmurs. "Did nobody else know?"

"Apparently not." John concludes. 

A heavy hand falls on Rogers shoulder at the same time as the judge lams his hammer onto the wooden plaque at the corner of his box. 

"Order in the courtroom."

The lawyer runs his fingers through his hair, making the strands stick out in every which way. He is glaring at Andrei, before he turns his back to him, making eye contact with his colleague. Knowing, deep down, that they had lost the case right there and then. 

"They know." Freddie says when order does not return to the uproaring crowd. "They know it's over."

Andreis lips are slightly agape, not in a sense of awe or surprise, but in search of words. 

Roger is equally silenced in bafflement. 

Chaos overtakes the room and Roger knows, full well, that if Andrei confesses to his crimes and confirms the crimes of his colleagues, confesses witnessing assault, forced prosttitution and many more heinous deeds done up to the night of the Menom Road shooting, that soon, Roger will be able to sleep undisturbed at night, every day, knowing that Andrei and all the men sitting in the defendants box will be cooped up in jail for many years to come.

The judge is still slamming his hammer. The murmurs in the courtroom have turned into people shouting over each other with questions. 

They are standing up, cameras are flashing and the jurors have gone wide eyed with perplexion of the turn-around. 

Nobody knew, but them and the police.

Andrei will likely have a hard time in prison, after this. Roger hopes they can send him somewhere away from the other crew members to ensure his safety in prison after he will testify against them. 

Colour drains from Andrei's face, as if he realizes the same thing as Roger. 

It is bleak, Andrei's future. 

Roger seems to be the only one in the room still seated, besides Andrei opposite to him in the witness box. He tips his chin up, a subtle unnoticable movement to anyone but him. 

"Thank you." He mouths.

There is no chance for him to see Andrei's reaction. His lawyer ambushes Andrei, blocking his view from Roger with his broad back. Then the judge calls for recess and the floor is instantly flooded with people seeking each other out for information, asking questions. 

Roger sits frozen on the wooden bench. It is Freddie who drags him upright by supporting the elbow of their still joined hands to get him up.

"We should go." He says in a calm yet firm tone as he tugs Roger along. "People will be coming to talk to you, you don't want to talk to the media."

Roger forces his eyes to tear away from the back of Andrei's lawyer and finds comfort on Freddie's gaze instead. He sinks into the familiar color and draws his body closer to Freddie's. 

"Let's leave."

Freddie manages a smile, before following after John out of the box. Brian follows close behind them a looming comfortable presence that keeps the journalists firmly away from Roger as they make their way outside the courtroom as one entity. 

★☆★ __

_John reaches across the table for Roger's hands. He waits for Roger to trickle out of his trance and turn his palms up as an invite. John leans onto the edge of his seat to interlace their fingers together and asks softly, "What is it?"_

_"Nothing." Roger replies in the same absent voice._

_He is blinking rapidly, getting rid of the haze over his clouded eyes._

_John runs his thumb over the bracelet line on Rogers delicate wrist. He works in slow circles to get Roger back to him._

_Freddie had only put the biscuits on the table between them and run off to the bedroom to wake Roger for tea. Roger had looked at the plate for a split second and his gaze had dropped into something distant._

_John is unsure of the psychology behind everything that has happened to Roger. He knows Roger writes a lot when he gets like this, to get his thoughts out, he'd usually say before leaving the room for some time alone. He remembers what Freddie told him about grief and that, despite his wrongdoings, Roger might still grief over Richards sudden death._

_For all the writing Roger does, he speaks very little of how he stands in this, John can only observe the behaviour Roger chooses to show him, or the times like this when he slips._

_"I love you."_

_Rogers hooded eyes tilt up from the custard biscuits on the plate, to meet John's gaze. He squeezes Johns fingers, once. "I love you too."_

_"You can tell me anything." John adds on, keeping his tone semi-casual although insistent. "Are you okay?"_

_"I am."_

_The answer came perhaps half a beat too fast and it isn't like Roger to be out of rhythm, but the clarity that now stands in his eyes is unquestionable. Roger regains posture and straightens his shoulders. His fingers flex, before curling permanently around Johns._

_"I just had a moment."_

_"Spaced out?" John asks, Roger nods twice in a row. "Is it Richard?"_

_Speaking his name is almost like summoning the devil. Roger makes a face, perhaps to hide from any seriousness. "Just a fleeting thought."_

_"Oh."_

_"Yeah..." Roger continues, unprompted, which John prefers. "The custard." He rolls his eyes at himself, then says in a single breathe, "Reminded me of the pus on the crime scene pictures."_

_"Oh."_

_"Yeah."_

_John is at a loss for words. He had not heard Roger speak of Richard like that voluntarily, not unprompted. This could have gone straight into the journal, never to be spoken of again._

_Instead, today, Roger decided not to do that._

_He has opened the gateway into his realm of thoughts and all John has to do is keep his foot in the door._

_"I worry about Crystal."_

_"Crystal?" John asks, somewhat surprised by the addition._

_"I wonder if he sees these mundane things and thinks about it." Roger bites the inside of his cheek in worry. "I just hope he's okay."_

_This conversation had gone entirely the opposite direction John had expected it to go. He pushes his chair back but not before bending down to kiss Rogers knuckles with a soft smack. When he gets up he has to let go of his hands, but it is a small loss._

_He grabs the plate of biscuits and walks over to the bin. Freddie and Brian enter the kitchen hand in hand just in time to watch John trash their snack into the garbage._

_Freddie's face falls. "Well, that's a waste."_

_John ignores him pointedly as he opens the snack cupboard and grabs the unopened package of plain chocolate rimmed biscuits. He rips it open and plays them out on the now empty plate, before bringing it over to the table to place it back where it was before._

_Roger watches him the whole time with a glimmer in his brilliant eyes, that follow John until he is sitting down again._

_"A necessary sacrifice, I'd say." John answers eventually._

_Freddie and Brian share a confused shrug, before they too take place on their seats at the table, not questioning anything that's happening when everyone is in a jolly mood._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that the chapters have been numbered indefinitely. We are approaching our end together ❤️


	42. Of Power and Succumb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future lies closer on the horizon than ever before. Roger still has to get used to the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so. This is the second last chapter and there is only one more to go and genuinely thats. Crazy. Next week I got a real speech coming of course but I already just want to say thank you if you’ve been here throughout all of this. To me that’s absolutely ridiculous, almost more ridiculous than me writing this hahahah. So thank you, truly and fondly ❤️   
> Enjoy reading the second last chapter.

Winnifred is freed on the final day of her court hearing. 

"Is that them?" Roger can't contain a warm grin from spreading across his face when he spots the blue Standard Vanguard parked up the hill. "I can't believe she still rides the same car after so many years."

He steers the car upwards and pushes the gas paddle a little harder than he should in an effort to make it faster to their destination. 

"You know how frugal your grandmother is." Winnifred comments from the backseat with a newfound lightness to her voice. Roger does not have to look in the mirror to sense how relieved she is to be here. He feels the same tug at his heart. 

Neither of them have seen Clare since the separation in the hospital months ago. They are equally eager to see her with their own eyes. 

"My dad drives one just like that." Freddie says in a much more collected voice. He has been a constant steady presence next to Roger during the long drive and had been with him throughout the entire day in court, awaiting his mothers sentencing. To their utter relief, her lawyers optimism had been well found. The judge had found her not guilty on all accounts set against her. The glimmer of hope he saw in his mothers eyes before his own welled up with tears, had exceeded past her own freedom. This win, is another win closer to identifying who in the Bull Crew needed to be caught behind bars and who should be aided in starting a new life. 

Winnifred had been released immediately by the police and hugged both Roger and Freddie at once in a bone crushing embrace in front of the entire courtroom. 

_"We're going home."_ She had said. Roger couldn't do anything but nod fiercely against her shoulder. 

They had upon her release, immediately called grandma's house from the phone booth outside the court to let her know the good news. Roger had first expected Winnifred would have wanted to go home, have a shower and have a home-cooked meal and go to bed early.

Instead, much to their surprise, she had asked Roger and Freddie to drive them two hours down the closest beach and meet Clare and Sarah there. 

How could Roger possibly deny her anything. 

"Don't change something that works, am I right?" Freddie's tender voice coaxes Roger out of his thoughts. 

Roger watches Winnifred grin through the rearview mirror. He had forgotten how warm his mothers smiles were. "You're very right." 

The windows and doors are all shut, but the salt and smell of sun-baked sand still filter into the car. It is rare for Roger to be able to smell much with how much his nose has been damaged by his past drug use. Roger bashfully inhales the scent and recalls summer days with grain between his toes, sore muscles and smiles that could match the sun beaming down on him. 

He can't remember the last time he has been to the beach. 

Roger steers the car uphill until it stops next to his grandmothers'. This will be one of the last rides in the police issued vehicles. Soon they will have to stand on their own feet. Roger doubts they will be able to afford their own car any time soon.

But now is not the time to speculate on that.

As soon as the car comes to a stop and Roger uses the hand brake to secure it stays in place, everyone unbuckles their seatbelts and eagerly push their way out of the car and into the inviting embrace of thick sea-air and the radiating sun. 

The weather is suspiciously nice for this time of year. There couldn't have been a better day for them to have gone to the beach. Although it is a beautiful day, the beach is nearly empty this early in the day in the middle of the week. 

It is a clean beach. The sand is soft and fine while the glistening sea is wild though retreated far back from their cars. 

While Roger pockets the keys into his trousers he squints into the distance where two blurry figures, one tall and one small, begin to approach them up the sand dunes. 

It is a little insulting that his mother's eyesight exceeds his and she begins to leap forward, calling, "Clare!"

Freddie has just walked around the car to join by Roger's side when Roger's legs automatically begin to carry him forward after his mother. She reaches Clare before him and is already embracing her tight against her chest. Roger runs until his thighs are burning and his lungs heave for air. He follows her down until his knees hit the sand so he can wrap his arms around both of them, Winnifred and Clare, at the same time. 

Roger buries his nose into Clare's warm blonde hair and kisses the crown repeatedly. She ducks her head in surprise, smiling up at him with one missing front tooth. 

Winnifred is squeezing the siblings together by their waists and peppers both their cheeks with countless kisses. Roger knows they are a blur of blond hair and arms and sand, but he could not care less. 

"I knew this day would come." She sniffles but does not bother hiding the tears that well up in her round azure eyes. "I knew that one day I could have you both."

"Don't cry mama." Clare pushes her bottom lip out in a pout and wipes at her mothers face with the back of her palm.

The same emotions that radiate from his family make Roger a similar blubbery mess of tears and smiles, he leans down to kiss Clare on the forehead. "She's happy, Clare. Those are happy tears. Aren't they mum?"

"Yes." Winnifred nods as she takes Clares hand away from her face just to kiss her knuckles. "I love you two so much."

"You are a sight for sore eyes."

Roger looks up to the shadow that suddenly looms over them. He immediately recognizes the grey-haired woman in a modest floral dress as his grandmother and pushes himself up to wrap his arms around her frail shoulders. 

"Grandma." He sighs against her cheek. 

"Oh you have grown tall!" She gasps but embraces him back just as eagerly. She smells just as she had when Roger was a child, like fresh cookies and that specific perfume she always asks for Christmas. "But still too skinny as ever."

"I'm sure you'll take care of that." Roger grins, before clearing his throat and steering their entangled bodies sideways so they are now facing Freddie, who is standing back just far enough to give the family some space to reunite in peacd. Roger beckons him closer with a hand gesture. Freddie ducks his head and smiles before approaching them. "Grandma, this is Freddie." Roger breathes. "The man who saved my life."

"Just 'Freddie' will do."

"Oh he's funny," Sarah extends her arm to Freddie to shake his hand, but she turns to smile at Roger. "I like him." 

Freddie's nervous laughter bubbles into a relaxed content smile. He and grandma shake hands, before they both turn back to face Roger in equal rejoice. It is surreal, truly, to stand between his long lost family members and his current boyfriend. His heart in his chest is so light that Roger fears he might float away without the anchor of darkness that had kept him in place for so long.

His gaze must have gone vacant, because next thing he knows, Freddie is pulling him down to sit in the sand and nudges Rogers to take off his sneakers. 

"It's alright. Just breathe." Freddie reminds him in a voice quiet enough that only they could hear it. "You know it's alright." He turns back to his own platforms before Clare plops herself down between Roger and Freddie. 

Roger has to force his head to clear and stay in the present to enjoy the moment he is given now. 

"Hey sis." Roger blindly begins unlacing his shoes and squints down at Clare. "Have you been in the water yet?"

"No! Was waiting for you and Freddie." She grins and puts her hand on his shoulder for balance as she toes her socks off along with her shoes. 

Roger swallows down the lump of emotions in his throat. He had not expected this day to catch him in such emotional turmoil. Freddie presses against him subtly, but it is enough.

Roger smiles back at Clare and when he is sure her other shoe is also off and her socks are neatly tucked into them, before he he casually says,

"The first in one in the water gets to sit in the front seat on the way home."

"What?!"

Clare lets out a shrill shriek, before she jumps to her feet, abandons her shoes without a second thought and starts sprinting straight for the ocean. 

Roger hears Winnifred sigh audibly over the seagulls squealing in the wind, but when he squints up at her and his grandma, all he gets is fond smiles and exasperated headshakes. "You ought to go after her." She comments wryly when Roger is still on his butt and Clare is reaching the wet patch of sand already.

With help from Freddie, Roger pushes up and not unlike his sister, leaves his converse and socks in his mothers care and makes a run for the ocean. 

The only difference is that he is clutching Freddie's hand on his on the way there. 

It is terrific to have the wind blow in his hair and the sand warm the underside of his soles. Roger inhales deeply when the running leaves him breathless. He fears that at any moment he will shut his eyes and jolt awake, on a dirty mattress, 16 years old again, glaring up at the ceiling of Richards cold rotten apartment. Roger clenches at Freddie's hand hard to make sure he doesn't disappear from this reality and continues to sprint the air out of his lungs and the thoughts out of his head. 

The water that splashes around him and wets his cuffed up trousers is real. And cold. The hand that squeezes him back, before letting go to carry Clare out of the water when she shrieks about standing on seaweed, is real. The smiles of his boyfriend and sister are as real as the sun and as real as the wind that blows around them. 

Roger chuckles when Clare clamps her legs around Freddie's middle, refusing to go down. 

"It tickles!"

"It's just the plants, darling, nothing—" Freddie jumps when he also steps onto some seaweed. "Eee! That does tickle!"

Roger laughs and squats down to splash water onto the two. They scream like little girls, as expected, and Roger fiercely wishes Brian and John could be here with them, although he knows it would be an overwhelming amount of company for his still adjusting family. 

Eventually, Winnifred and Sarah join them in the water (after responsibly storing their shoes in the back of the car). They stay close to shore with only their ankles in the cold sea. 

Roger catches his breath after a few moments and joins the two women where they are watching Freddie and Clare jump over the waves that come crashing on the beach. 

Their conversation comes to a halt when Roger approaches them, but he doesn't think much of it. It makes him feel pleasantly young that they have things to discuss that he shouldn't have to worry about. 

"Everything alright, Dear?" His mother squeezes his arm when he comes to stand next to her. "She's got a lot of energy."

"She sure does, but I'm glad for it." 

His cheeks ache from smiling this hard for such an extended amount of time. He tries to smooth out his face, but seems incapable of doing so. 

"Actually, I wanted to ask you guys something."

Sarah and Winnifred wear an identical expression with a raised eyebrow. Roger wonders idly if he has that same face. "Go on?"

"Well the boys and I, we have a gig coming up."

Winnifred's eyes light up. "A gig?"

Roger is practically gloating. "Janice is working at a pub now and got us a gig through that, it's after the trials are done." There is practically no chance that anyone involved with the Bull Crew will be getting out, the question is, how much will they have to do and for how many accounts will they be found guilty?

"I'd love to see you play. I have always loved your voice." His mother comments in the silence following the statement. 

"Well I'm not singing, not for the most part anyway." Roger explains. "I drum now."

"Drumming? Really? When did you learn to do that." Sarah chuckles, before adding in a lower tone. "Are you any good?"

"I guess you'll find out by then." Roger chuckles, earning a round of playfully scoffs. 

★☆★

"Why is it taking so long if they already know the verdict?"

"Shut it Fred." Brian huffs nervously. Roger can practically see the perspiration glistening on his forehead. "They're going to kick us out."

"Everyone is talking!"

Freddie flings his arms up and catches attention from the people around them. 

The courtroom is packed today and buzzing with people. The number of reporters covering the case have increased again since Andrei's confession had called for a number of new witnesses and caused a chain react of other defendants (mostly in in lower rankings of the Crew) taking the stands under much pressure to also confess to their bosses criminal activities. 

It had caused a ruckus amongst the defendant's lawyers, grasping desperately at straws to minimize prison time for their client and a months delay of the verdict, including five days of jury deliberations. 

"I can't believe this day has finally come." Roger is brought back to the conversation when Freddie pulls on his arm, looking giddy as if the verdict had already been spoken. "It will all be over soon."

"Freddie."

Freddie rolls his eyes at Johns warning tone, but with his face angled so only Roger can see it. He gives Rogers arm a good squeeze. "Almost there."

Roger is chewing on the inside of his cheek, not really feeling like talking with how high his heart beats in his chest. He fears that if he opens his mouth he'd vomit the organ out. 

"You're jinxing this." Brian's knee is jittering up and down rapidly. 

Freddie scowls. "No I'm not, they already got the verdict, remember?"

"Yeah but they haven't read it to us yet."

"You're both irritating." Roger looks up to follow John with his eyes as he gets up from the bench and moves Roger over to his spot with a simple nudge on the shoulder. 

Roger goes obediently and can't help but feel a little more relaxed when John forces himself between Roger and Freddie, forming a human shield between him and his two chattering boyfriends. John crosses his arms and exhales. "Now you may continue talking."

"You're no fun." Freddie grunts, at the same time as Brian huffs, "What did I do?"

Roger subtly smoothes his leg against Johns. John makes sure to keep perfectly still while he does. His hand hovers over his own thigh, in a perfect world, Roger could turn his palm over and allow the longing touch to soothe him. 

But they don't live in a perfect world.

He is living in a world where he has to wait for the verdict about his abusers. It is raining outside. Officer Leonard at the front of the courtroom is rubbing his forehead, appearing nervous for the first time since the trial began. His mother is at home waiting anxiously for his call. Sweat is pouring out of every part of Rogers body and he is certain that if he were to stand up now, his knees would give out underneath him. 

"You'd think they'd be ready by now." John shrugs his sleeve up to get a look at his watch. He clenches his jaw when he reads the time, his temples twitch in frustration. Roger bumps his shoulder into him in a silent question. John consciously relaxes his face. "A quarter to twelve."

"Forty-five minutes late." Brian states pointedly with crossed arms. 

To which Freddie replies, "All of us can count, Brian. Astrophysics degree or not." 

"If the two of you don't shut up—"

Roger grasps at John's arm to shut him up when the door next to the jury box opens and a uniformed man holds it open so the jury can step into the courtroom. John, as well as every other person in the room, falls silent until it seems that even oxygen has been cut off to keep everyone from breathing too loud. 

The silence is broken by the same man in uniform who straightens his back and calls in a firm voice for everyone to rise for the judge.

John instantly has his hand under Roger's elbow to support him up. 

In a matter of seconds, everyone is standing tall in the thick anxiety laced space. Roger can hardly breathe as the judge takes place in his seat in the slowest possible pace a man could call moving. 

His white powdered wig and sleek black cloak look as pretentious as ever. Roger desperately wants him to get on with it, by the looks of Larry Jones fidgetting backside, one of the defendants' lawyers wriggling his hands behind his back and the even the reporters have gone still. 

Then, before the judge gets a word in, Roger's eyes fall on the only other person to stick out from this near-invisible crowd. 

Gillian.

The grey-haired manifestation of evil is the only one in the room who has not risen from his chair in respect for the judge, he is dressed in his prison clothes, which is more pleasing to the eye than anything Roger could have imagined himself. Other than the clothes, one could not have guessed that Gillian is sitting here, wedged between Roy and Frank, to hear if he will be spending the rest of his existence trapped within four walls. 

He is laid back and nonchalant in the slope of his shoulders and the amused twist on his lips.

With people dead, lives ruined and justice still possibly failing the victims, there is nothing to laugh about. 

Roger sees red at the display of arrogance. How he sits cross-legged and hands relaxed in his lap like a king listening to his daily briefing. The trademark arrogance pushes memories to the front of Roger's head. His anger is instantly replaced by an overwhelming helplessness of his past reflecting in the now. He couldn't do anything then. Today, it is out of his hands again. 

He painfully remembers being used by him, made drunk and ridiculed by his physical response to the alcohol, rolled onto his stomach and used like he was nothing while that same little smile graced his face throughout. Gillian had done it multiple times over the years, used Roger to make a statement to Richard. _I can take anything away from you. Nothing you have is truly yours. I am the boss here._ Roger was just the object, the thing, the means necessary to achieve total control over Richard. Roger was used to pain and scars from his daily clients, but Gillian had been worse, leaving large bitemarks over his body, he'd pinch Rogers flesh until it became numb and purple, sometimes he would rub his body fluids over Rogers back to send him back to Richard completely marked and unshowered. It had been humiliating. Gillian had grinned when Roger's face turned red in response to the treatment. 

Roger clenches his wrists. He feels the pain as if they were freshly inflicted. 

His lungs burn with how long it has been since he last breathed in an his vision grows fussy around the edges.

John's hand is still on his elbow, but the stranger next to him has to also grasp at his arm when Rogers body begins to stagger when his knees give out and his eyes roll back into his head. 

"Shit." John hisses as he and the random man get Roger propped up on the bench. He can't seem to move any muscles himself and waits with his jaw clenched shut for them to position him safely without drawing too much attention to him. 

The helplessness is sickening. Roger almost vomits over his shoes before they wisely put him with his head between his legs and Johns hand rubs gentle circles between his shoulder blades. Roger's eyes are fixated on the brown stain on the floor that looks like the shape of Italy. He brings his hands together when his mobility allows him yo and interlaces them as one would in prayer, realizing that all of his fingers are numb. 

To not draw more attention to themselves, Johns stays on his feet and the man is casting concerned looks down at Roger every few minutes.

The judge is speaking, but Roger can't hear him over his own thundering heart. Until suddenly everyone in the courtroom is sitting down again. While they do, Roger can feel eyes on him, but they are mostly familiar gazes that don't alarm him, not as much as the sudden panic that rises up his chest.

He has no idea what he will do if they don't get the time they deserve. He does not know how to live if they won't be trapped in jail.

Only seeing Gillian like this, pleased with himself and unbothered, unanchors the core of Roger's recovery. Everything he had hoped would dissolve with time comes back up instantly. And he feels every physical injury he has endured opening up beneath his clothes. He remembers feeling like a bag of meat and bones. He remembers not wanting to remember, but always conserving the pain deep inside his mind. 

_One, two, three, four_ — 

He shuts his eyes and counts in his head. _Five, six, seven, eight._

His body hurts. Every muscle is cramped in a sudden pull of pain. Roger struggles to remain quiet even with his whole bottom lip chewed between his teeth. 

_Nine. Ten, eleven, twelve_ —

Roger cranks his head up when John pauses in rubbing between his shoulders. He opens his mouth to ask why he stopped, but when he looks up his eyes catch the wigged judge perched on the very edge of his seat and addressing the jury foreman directly, asking in a wise and carrying voice, "Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed? Please answer, Yes, or, No."

The answers is a sure and immediate yes, something that pleases the judge, who nods gruffly. 

Roger's previously thundering heart has paused beating altogether now. He holds his breath, uncaring about the dizzy edges of his vision. 

The uniformed man who had opened the door for the jury is the one who turns to the jury now again, straight spined and stiff. 

"What is your verdict?"

There is a collective intake of breath that puts Roger right on the edge of his seat. He can't blink. He can't swallow. He is at the total mercy of the jury. A group of people who will, despite hearing all their testimony's for weeks for hours, won't ever truly understand the pain he had endured all his life. He doubts that there is a law out there that could punish the Crew in the same moderation as they had harmed him.

The foreman of the jury is an elderly man without any hair, fondly but briefly Roger thinks of Crystal before he can push the thought away, he is wearing glasses and an orange chequered shirt. When he opens the envelope with the verdict, his hands shake with age and his wrinkles deepen in a frown. 

Roger grips at his own knees trying to keep himself still, trying to urge the man with mental waves to hurry up.

One glance at Gillian reveals the man is still confident in his chances.

Eventually, when the paper has been carefully sheated out of the envelope, the foreman takes a deep breath, swallows thickly pass the lump beneath his Adam's apple, before looking up at the expectant judge. 

"In the matter of the City of London Police vs. the Bull Crew, case number AX4479, we the jury in the above-entitled action find the defendant Gillian Mcguire guilty on all accounts. Of the crime of possession of a controlled drug unlawfully. Possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply it. Supplying or offering to supply a controlled drug. Allowing premises you occupy or manage to be used unlawfully for the purpose of producing or supplying controlled drugs. False imprisonment. Assault. Buggery. Bulgary. Possession of illegal firearms. Human trafficking. Permitting premises to be used for prostitution. Aiding in—"

 _On all accounts_.

Rogers ears are ringing in a high pitched tone that prevents him from hearing half the foremans spoken words. The only thing that sticks with him in his sudden haze is the magic word. 

_Guilty._

He doesn't care that they are in public. He avidly grasps for Johns hand and grips it in his own, looking up at his equally teary eyed boyfriend with a broad, near-insane smile. His cheeks hurt from how hard he is grinning. He doesn't care. He doesn't give a shit what it might look like. 

"Guilty." He mouths wordlessly when Freddie and Brian stick their necks out to show their own watery grins. "Guilty." He repeats in his own disbelief.

The pain is not gone. Not like that. But he does feel lighter, like he was carrying a backpack filled to the brim with bricks and it had been on his shoulders for so long that Roger had forgotten he was dragging it around in the first place. 

Someone has opened the backpack and taken out the heaviest of the contents, leaving Roger, not for the first time, to feel like he is floating away. 

Suddenly he realizes that it doesn't matter that even now, even after the spoken verdict and the lawyers looking like they are chewing on a citrus and the other defendants going white as a sheet, that Gillian is still smiling faintly like he hasn't just heard the final nail being hammered into his coffin. It doesn't matter that he is too prideful to display his defeat here, now, publicly. 

Roger won.

"In the matter of the City of London Police vs. the Bull Crew, case No. AX4479, we the jury in the above-entitled action find the defendant Roy Smith guilty on all accounts." 

Roger shuts his eyes and rests his forehead on his and Johns interlocked hands. He can't stop smiling, not until the rest of the lot that had 'pleaded not guilty' prior to this day has been dragged into the back of the police van and driven all the way to their permanent resident. Jail. For what will be for the majority of them, their last car drive of their life. 

"In the matter of the City of London Police vs. the Bull Crew, case No. AX4479, we the jury in the above-entitled action find the defendant Allan Oconnell guilty on all accounts." 

Roger's hands won't stop shaking until he sees through his own blurry gaze the single last one of those bastards escorted out of the courtroom with their hands tied behind their backs. 

"In the matter of the City of London Police vs. the Bull Crew, case No. AX4479, we the jury in the above-entitled action find the defendant Frank McClean guilty on all accounts." 

Richard won't ever be tried for what he did to Roger. Dead people don't get prosecuted in court no matter what evidence there is. It is not about that anyway, to Roger it is about being able to go on the streets without having to look over his shoulder, bringing his sister to school without fearing she would never come home, praying his mother won't be taken from him again, for the world and his own small intimate inner circle to be safe. 

"In the matter of the City of London Police vs. the Bull Crew, case No. AX4479, we the jury in the above-entitled action find the defendant Larry Hopkins guilty on all accounts." 

Roger can breathe, then. Inhale deeply until his lungs are filled plenty to their full capacity and breathe out, in a world where every single guilty person involved won't ever breathe the same air as him again. 

★☆★

"I've had this," 

Freddie bends down by the waist and grabs the embarrassingly large bottle of champagne out of the cupboard. He turns to them again with a large smile across his glowing face. 

"In here, for nearly half a year."

"You're kidding." John deadpans, but he is already climbing on the counter to reach the highest shelf where they keep the glasses. Roger is definitely not looking at his pushed out backside. He turns his neck with a smirk that tells he knows exactly that Roger was looking. "How could you even afford that?" 

"No time to ask silly questions." Freddie's eyes fixate on Roger. "No time for that now."

Roger is still planted in the doorway, clutching onto Brian's arm like a lifeline. It's the only thing that feels real in the lightness that becomes all consuming. 

He tips his face up from Brian's shoulder so he can show Freddie that he too, is smiling from ear to ear in the most infectious way. 

The corners of Freddie's eyes crinkle with delight now that he can see Rogers face. 

He holds the champagne bottle out to him. 

"It's time to celebrate."

With a nudge from Brian, Roger untangles himself from his arm to take the enormous bottle from Freddie. "Where the fuck did you get this? It's massive."

"All these useless questions!" Freddie waves him off and grins wickedly when John joins them with four glasses in his hands. Freddie snakes an arm around his waist and pulls him flush against his side to nuzzle his cheek like an eager cat. The sight melts Rogers' heart. "Thank you, Dear."

"I suppose we do ought to celebrate," John's cheeks turn pink where Freddie's lips ghost over his skin. He hands everyone a glass, but holds onto Roger's while he tips his chin at him. "Pop that bottle open, Fred didn't steal it for nothing."

"I didn't steal it!" Freddie squawks and slaps John's arm. 

Roger doesn't need to be told twice. He could really do with a drink.

He props the bottle up on his thigh and he begins to screw the cork off the top. His hands are still clammy from how profoundly he was sweating in the courtroom. It makes it harder to get it off. 

"For Gods sake." Roger chuckles, feeling bubbly already prior to his drink. "Get off of there—"

With a distinct 'pop' the cork flies across the room and hits the wall next to the kitchen cabinets that causes one of the cats to hiss in surprise. Champagne comes spewing out of the bottle in a steady stream and flows down to Rogers clasped hands. He could not care less in the elevating cheers of his boyfriends, while he tips the bottle to fill all their glasses to the brim. 

"I didn't think this day would ever come." Roger grins. His cheeks ache with joy. He can barely stand still where he is. He rocks back on his heels and when he pours Brian his drink and can't resist any longer to tip forward and press their lips together in a hard passionate kiss. 

Brian makes a surprised muffled noise at the back of his throat, but immediately wraps his free arm around Rogers lower back to deepen the kiss. 

It is difficult to kiss when your face is threatening to break out into a smile constantly, but Roger keeps pushing his lips up against Brian, simply brushing their warm mouths together and delving into the closeness until his toes curl in his shoes and he can't tell his lips apart from Brians wet ones.

"Oh drinks and a show," Freddie sighs happily, "Who says you can't have it all?"

"My glass hasn't been filled yet." John mutters and slips the bottle out of Rogers slackening grip to finish the task himself. 

Roger plants three quick butterfly kisses to Brian's sweet lips, realizing he is standing on his tip-toes ready to fall over if it weren't for Brians steady grip on his hips. He feels flustered, hot all over, his skin is ablaze and his eyes sting with an abundance of emotions. 

He has never felt this good, never realized just how much there is on the horizon.

He pulls away from Brian's lips to look into his stunned eyes, a beautiful honey brown colour that makes Roger's heart leap. He squeezes Brians shoulders and sighs, eyes momentarily closing again.

"I love you."

Brian chuckles, but it comes out wet and surprised. "I love you too."

Roger beams at him, before he pushes himself back to his feet to turn to Freddie and John instead. He flings himself at John, not giving a single shit when champaign spills over his back and the floor. 

"Roger be careful!" John laughs and kisses his forehead fondly. "Can't waste all this drink."

"I'm not sorry! I love you." Roger inhales sharply. His nose is pressed against the most sensitive tender patch of John's neck. He rubs his nose against the soft skin to take another whiff of him. "I love you."

He can't see John's face, but he half imagines he's rolling his eyes, although a broad hand lands on Rogers back to rub him between his shoulders. 

"I love you too."

"And what about me?"

Roger looks up to see Freddie pushing his bottom lip out in a pout. His eyes betray the mirth behind the gesture, but Roger leans into the act anyway and untangles himself from John to offer Freddie a warm, bone-crushing embrace too. 

Freddie makes a strangled sound, and wheezes when Roger makes sure to squeeze extra hard. 

"I love you." Roger says earnestly, before pushing his lips out for a kiss. "How could you doubt that?"

"I don't." Freddie whispers and swallows the end of the word by pressing their lips together finally, inhaling sharply when their soft wet skin brushes over each other, sending hot tingles over the rest of their faces. 

Roger's head is spinning with joy. His thoughts are overclouded with relief, utter, bone marrow-deep relief. 

Everything else in the world seems to have grown into something small, minuscule, unimportant and fleeting. For the first time in his life, Roger believes that even the worst things can pass.

Soon they will have to move out, they will have to work to make a living, will be seeing a bit less of each other, get a crappy apartment, use up each other's hot water in the shower, have no space for all their clothes, fight over doing the dishes and who will walk the cats, they will sleep in the same bed every day, they will keep a window open during the night because it is hot and they won't worry about anyone breaking in, Roger will go back to therapy and his support group, they will go to pubs, dress up for the opera, visit their families, eat junk food, drive to the beach, play music and never look back at the time before. 

One day, Roger thinks wistfully with his mouth still against Freddie's soft lips, one day all of those things will be normal.

★☆★ __

_Fire is still pooling in Gillian's abdomen when he pushes himself to his knees with a grunt. His joints grind together painfully at the shift of weight, in moments like this Gillian is reminded of his overindulgence in liquors and heavy dinners._

_Only thanks to his willpower he doesn't flop back down on the boy and crush him beneath his mass._

_Instead, he forces himself to land on the empty space next to him._

_These days it takes a long time for him to catch his breath after mounting someone like that. "Next time you're riding me." He states rather than asks, before slapping around blindly for the glass of brandy he had left on the bedside table. "I'm not so young anymore."_

_The ice has dissolved in the liquor, making the glass cold to Gillian's palm when he brings it to his lips to sip._

_Cool alcohol soothes his coarse throat. He hums against the brim happily and licks into the glass to savour the very last drop. It helps his heart rate slow down and feeling the aches in his muscles._

_He finally allows himself a sideways glance to the boy beside him. Where his body pliant and lissome under Gillian's hard hand, the mask has effectively slipped in the aftermath._

_Gillian continues pretending not to look._

_The boy wouldn't grant him the satisfaction. He lays on his back, stiff like a plank, completely paralyzed. His fingers twitch on top of the bedding and his shuddering limbs remain splayed out exactly how Gillian had left him. Bruises and red marks are already starting to blossom beneath the raw skin Gillian had paid such attention to. It is almost worrying how fast it sends a satisfied buzz down his spine._

_Where he isn't already scarred up, the boys skin had been surprisingly soft. Gillian had been glad to run his hands up and down his legs. If he shut his eyes, it reminded him of a woman's smooth silken body._

_The boys shuddering comes to an immediate stop when Gillian props himself up against the headboard and hooks his hand underneath the boy's knee to hike his leg up for inspection._

_His breath hitches beautifully in alarm. Gillian snorts and watches in amusement, how the boys used hole flutters around thin air at the sudden emptiness after the abuse._

_Without a second thought, Gillian gathers his seeds that had begun trickling out with his thumb to press back into the boy._

_"Good boy." Gillian murmurs when the body beneath him goes completely still. He lets his breath tickle the boy's ear, watching intently as goosebumps appear on the boy's face and shoulders. "You're well trained, I must say."_

_Blue eyes, blank with numbing drugs, flicker over to Gillians in a moment of true shame._

_After a night of groping, biting and clawing at him, Gillian is surprised this was what had done the trick to get him over the edge. That will have him shudder all the way back home, into right Richards arms._

_Playing people and finding out what makes them tick is one of the main reasons how he had come to power in one of Londons most notorious gangs._

_Although it isn't hard to figure out a whore, quivering for their overdue drugs dozes._

_His name is Roger, Gillians suddenly remembers. Roger has learned to disassociate himself from his physical being. Charges at his self-worth and humanity will cause the lasting damage Gillian so eagerly causes to retain control. It takes just one whore in a web of manipulation to keep everyone under the thumb. Richard, then Richard's men and the cronies underneath them and their families. Keeping people under his control is half the work, ruling with fear and psychological games have never failed him._

_It takes just one whore to keep the whole scheme together._

_It only takes one whore to lose control over for the pyramid to come tumbling down._

_Therefore, Gillian thinks with a grin broadening across his face, control must be ensured by whatever means. If that means destroying one boy's sense of self, then that is not much of a price to pay._

_Gillian strokes a tear away from the corner of Rogers eye._

_"No need for that." He tuts as soon as he catches it. "You're still in one piece."_

_The boy locks his jaw and remains perfectly silence. The humiliating tears keep appearing in the corners of his eyes. Gillian watches his own reflection loom over as a darkening shadow in the boy's glassy iris._

_He pats the boy's stained cheek until it flushes red. Gillian keeps his palm on the warm skin to seep the heat up for himself._

_"It's a pity I shall have to return you." He sighs deeply. "Can't keep the things you've borrowed, right boy?"_

_The boy has to unclench his jaw to speak. When he does, he sounds a lot less threatening than the fire in his cloudy eyes._

_"No sir." He forces out through gritted teeth._

_Gillian leans back against the heap of pillows but keeps his hand possessively on Roger's face. Reminding him, that for the rest of his life, Gillian will be the one to decide Roger's fate._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the end nearing like that I appreciate your comments more than ever. I really do ❤️


	43. Of Beginnings and Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🤍I would like to thank you all for reading along with me and especially a thank you to everyone who has been so incredibly generous giving me the support I needed to get through this. 
> 
> 🖤I have made a lot of friends along the way and I will forever be grateful. 
> 
> 🤍This has been a wild right and I cannot believe it has been less than a year, it feels like we have been on this for years. 
> 
> 🖤You guys are the reason why I enjoy writing and why I managed to finish this. Despite this hell year, sleepless nights and lots of worries 😂! Thank you. 
> 
> 🤍To accompany you on your last chapter with Nevermore I’ve made a fitting playlist:  
> \- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3vazQkYHxzkZFAQ1JLb9I0?si=va77XF8LSDqmU1uTFMoaQA  
> And I made a moodboard on Tumblr:  
> \- https://emmaandorlando.tumblr.com/post/635519935923290112/httpsarchiveofourownorgworks22060009chapters
> 
> 🖤There is so much I still want to give to the fandom after this and I hope to see you guys on the other side. 
> 
> 🤍And now, for the very last time, I hope you enjoy the chapter. I’m extremely proud of it.
> 
> The lovely Lewsie made a beautiful art for this fic. One of my favorite artists of our wonderful fandom: https://grahamcockroach.tumblr.com/post/636228870420496384/heres-the-scene-lol-thank-u-for-telling-me-what

It is not exactly the dressing room they were promised. 

It's a storage closet with two chairs, a grimy mirror and a sink, but with only five minutes left until showtime they boys have little time to complain about the uncomfortable space they have all managed to cramp into. 

Show preparations never become faster, with four boys to prepare and only one of them serving as makeup artist. 

At least Freddie doesn't have an instrument to tune. 

It is particularly hard to draw straight lines with only the single light bulb that dangles low from the ceiling. "Brian, dear it doesn't help one bit if you keep bumping into it." Freddie mutters with the mascara bottle between his front teeth. "The shadows keep changing when it's swinging around."

"I'm _very_ sorry, I'll make sure to shrink before our next gig."

"Excellent." Freddie brushes the clumpy mascara through John's fine brown lashes, while promptly ignoring the sarcasm in Brian's tone. Freddie keeps John still with an insisting hand on his forehead that keeps them both steady. "Almost done with you, all you need is some blush on those cheeks."

"The last thing I need is to look more flustered." John whispers from the corner of his mouth. 

Truth be told, the storage closet was not meant to hold four nervous full-grown men wearing extensive-stage wear and makeup. Freddie had done his own makeup first and had caked it on nice and thick to last, but he already feels the first beats of sweat betraying through the layers of foundation. 

Nevertheless, Freddie applies the pink blush to the apples of John's cheeks until he glows a soft rosy colour. He doesn't complain but does jump up as soon as Freddie lifts the brush from his face.

"No, no, no. Powder!" Freddie grasps the front of Johns t-shirt and drags him back in place to pat the powdered puff over the entirety of John's face. 

A weak, "No Fred—" Comes from the white cloud but is replaced immediately by a series of coughs. 

Freddie, who had been holding his breath, smiles brightly as the powder sets on all the surfaces it lands on. "Can't have you be shiny." He keeps his tone soft and airy, he knows John struggles being grumpy when Freddie speaks in that voice. All he does is sulk and walk out the way when Freddie gives a permitting arm squeeze. 

He leans forward in his chair to smile at Roger through the mirror, who had been sitting behind him in the only other chair in the closet, twirling his drum sticks between his fingers. 

"Rog, your turn Love, come on."

John and Roger switch seats with John sinking into Roger's chair with an audible sigh and Roger ducking beneath the lightbulb to cross the 'room'.

With the cramped space and lack of available seating, Roger has to lean against the sink and half sit in Freddie's lap. 

He's only a comfortable weight on Freddie's thighs for a few minutes before the muscles will go numb. Freddie already knows exactly what he wants to do with Roger and begins immediately. 

Doing Roger's makeup is almost like working on a painting. It brings Freddie back to his days as a fashion student, before switching to design. Face painting should always compliment the models' clothing, the same way a handbag and shoes should.

Roger is the perfect blank canvas. Aside from being eager, pliable and easy on the eyes, his bedroom eyes and perfect cupid bowed lips positively beg for the brush of paint. 

"Alright, I'm starting, so keep your eyes closed for me."

His brow creases at the first cold touch, but hums in affirmation anyway. "Hmmh."

The drag of the coal pencil he'll never get used to, but Freddie's soothing thumb smooths most of the discomfort away. Freddie draws the lines thick and heavy on Roger's otherwise pale face, keeping his mental reference picture of Brigitte Bardot in mind. Although she is a beautiful woman, her beauty could not compare to the vision of Roger after only two minutes under Freddie's care. 

After the eyeliner, Freddie uses a soft lip balm to prep Roger's raw bitten skin for the lipstick. "You always bitting your lips leaves them in quite a state."

"I'm nervous 's all." Roger murmurs and to his credit barely moves his lips. "It's packed."

"As it should be." Freddie grins. He takes a gentle hold of Roger's chin to keep it perfectly still for Freddie to glide the butter-soft lipstick across his pouted out lips. This colour he only reserves for Roger, because the orange-tinged red works perfect for his light hair. Today is no different from the usual end result. 

Freddie takes a final look at Roger's face and can't help but inhale shakily at the sight. Roger peaks his eyes open just in time to hear Freddie sigh. 

"Exquisite."

Roger's lips curl upwards in a giddy smile. "You're such a flatterer." Much more prepared than John, Roger holds his breath when Freddie assaults him with the powder bun. 

John clears his throat behind them. Through the mirror behind Roger's back, Freddie can see him study his watch. 

"Two minutes."

"Perfect! We're almost done." Freddie announces brightly, before letting Roger off his lap just in time for his thighs to start tingling from the weight. Roger gets to his feet and Freddie follows suit before his legs fall asleep.

He clasps his hands together and glances between all three of his boyfriends standing around the room. 

John is still sitting in the chair with one leg crossed over the other. He is a vision of sleek elegance in his three-piece velvet suit and cap toe oxfords. His long lush hair falls on his shoulders in a waterfall of ever lasting grace. 

Brian with his guitar already slung around his shoulders, on the other hand, is dressed in a heavy black cloak with golden embroidered details at the top. The dramatic necklace draws the eyes even more towards the neck area, the perfect place to draw attention to, considering how long and graceful Brian's neck is. 

Roger is in the most revealing outfit of the band. Wearing a faux leather jacket with no zipper or other method to shut it, leaving him exposed and bare-chested. The dramatic flared out sleeves are signature to the look, aside from Roger's tight leather trousers that wrap him up in all the perfect places. Underneath his pink lucky socks peak out, giving him a pop of colour. 

Freddie had been staring at each of them intently, under the guise of checking for any necessary final touches. He even tapped his chin as he peered around. 

They are looking back at him expectantly, waiting to give his usual pre-show pep talk. It is hard to be creative about them when they start having gigs every night, sometimes twice a night. 

He continuous to tap on his chin, thinking of what to say even as he already begins to speak. 

"So we've got a full house tonight with a lot of people waiting to hear our songs, which for the first time will be mostly our own. I know this is a little scary, but because the songs are new and uniquely ours, they will never know if we make a small misstep here and there." Freddie states in a matter of fact-voice. "But we will not be making any mistakes, of course, because these songs are our own and anything we change about it, is an artistic choice." 

"Unless they hate the songs." John buds in. Earning a scowl from Freddie and a disapproving nudge from Roger. 

The songs were mainly written by Freddie and Brian, but Brian had been the most obviously nervous about live performing them so far.

John rolls his eyes in exasperation. "I'm teasing. They'll love it."

"At least our mums will make up for any applause that might lack from elsewhere." Roger wraps an arm around Brian's neck when the makeup plastered on his face doesn't hide how the colour has drained from it. _Despite_ their makeup and Freddie making a quick high pitched noise of disapproval, Roger stands on his tip-toes to brush his lips across Brian's cheek. "They're good songs, Bri. Stop worrying so much. Anyone who's ever heard them loved it."

The sight of them together in their stage wear and all dolled up, sets Freddie right back at ease. 

Brian shuts his eyes and exhales soundly, grounding himself with his boyfriends' helping hand on his lower back. 

"We will get on stage and conquer it, make the crowd love us and beg for us to come back for more. Do you hear me?" Freddie asks all three of them, pausing at each of their faces individually. 

John nods firmly. "Sir, yes sir."

Roger only bothers with a military salute. 

At least Brian has the decency to break out into a nervous smile and thank him for the speech. "Wonderfully said Fred." He adjusts the guitar strap on his back and pulls firmly to fasten it. "Let's do this." 

★☆★

It is rather daunting to do the performance in a shitty pub wedged between a drugstore with flickering lights and a two-story flat with shattered windows. On a six-inch-high stage, about two steps away from the nearest table at which his mother is sitting, snapping pictures with flash while Freddie prances in the limited amount of space offered by the cramped state of their set. 

He makes it work, of course.

Somewhere between Doing Alright and Great King Rat, Freddie finds his balance. Which is not easy on his four-inch platforms. 

Roger's drumset remains the largest obstacle but Brian remains the most mobile and therefore unpredictable one. John is Freddie's anchor as he twists and spins around the stage. He finds John's eyes, sparkling even in the dim lighting, and steadies himself on his way prancing over to him with the microphone cradled tight in both hands. 

The people love it. The size of the pub limits the number of people that could have come to watch today, yet Freddie's languid, belly exposing and back bending, hair flipping movements cause a blood rushing roar from the crowd. 

His mothers flashing camera becomes near invisible in the blur of applause and deafening bellowing. 

All four of them have transcended into another world it seems. John is plucking at his bass strings with his eyes casted down, nearly shut. Roger is drumming his heart out with sweat pouring down his face, drenching his hair and leather jacket, blurred out eyes crossed in concentration. Brian is strumming away the music with a stellar, though vacant look in his eyes. 

They will all have one comment or another on how the show can improve before the next performance, but overall their lineup is magnificent. 

Freddie doesn't always sing on key, John doesn't always manage to make a connection with the crowd, Roger starts the beat while the others are still catching their breath and Brian does not know when the quit his self imposed solos. 

But they are a good band and manage to grow every time they pick up their instruments. 

Their energy is like electricity, a lightning bolt that strikes from the sky and electrifies everything it comes in contact with. The static rush will stick in the bodies of everyone in the pub tonight. 

Between Keep Yourself Alive, Stone Cold Crazy and then Liar, they know they have sold themselves as the crowd goes wild on the third " _All Day Long_ ".

Freddie shoots Roger a boyish grin during Tutti Frutti, one that dimples his cheeks and makes his muscles ache.

Roger is panting, shaking his head fondly as he sings and drums all at once, looking like an otter that had just emerged from the water. Despite that, he is a crowd-pleaser, easy on the eye and causing girlish shrieks from all over the premise. 

They finish a few moments later, after repeating the chores another three times at the demanding shouts of "Encore! Encore!"

Freddie hopes that one day, it will be his name that they'll shout. 

"Thank you and goodnight my Darlings! We are Queen with Brian May on guitar, Deacon John on Bass, Roger Taylor on the drums and I am Freddie Mercury. This was a wonderful night. Thank you all."

There is thundering applause that fills Freddie's ears beyond possible capacity. They leave the stage in a flurry of waving arms and smiles. John takes a bow and Roger bumps into him, laughs and drags John along off stage after Brian and Freddie.

The three of them immediately begin chattering loudly when the storage room door has shut behind them and their voices are no longer drowned out by the pub-goers. 

"We'll have to get out soon, our mums will be waiting." Brian comments with an exhausted little smile. Freddie tosses him a towel, he always packs four in his bag for after the concert. The others go around too and he leaves the final one for himself, gently dabbing at his face to not smear his makeup around. 

Roger nor John are as careful with their faces and end do up spreading their eye makeup around, looking like raccoons. At least Brian is more concentrating on the sweat on his forehead. 

"I think we deserve a drink, Darlings." Freddie's chest is still heaving, but the pride that swells in his chest makes it difficult to keep quiet. "That was, rather magnificent."

Roger high fives John and then Brian with a giddy smile. "We're getting better and better."

"The pub could barely hold the amount of people that wanted to listen." John sounds a little too surprised by his own words. Freddie doesn't comment on his lack of faith.

"Soon we'll be needing bigger venues." Brian chips in and fondly shakes his head as he slings his guitar off. "I can't believe it."

"One thing at the time, of course. We celebrate tonight and tomorrow we can think of strategies to branch out." Freddie tosses his towel back in the direction of his duffel bag. The others copy his movement with bright smiles and radiant eyes. They are all tired, although the concert wasn't longer than 40 minutes with their short set-list. Freddie wonders with his sore throat how other bands do it for two hours straight. 

The music and adrenaline are still buzzing through them. Freddie reaches out and takes Roger's hands in his, choosing him because he stood the closest to him. He gives his hands, raw and tender from gripping his sticks, a gentle squeeze. "Now, I believe it is time for drinks."

"In these clothes?" John grimaces, and pulls on the collar that sticks to his body with sweat just before unhooking himself from his instrument too. 

Freddie waves him off and starts pulling Roger towards the door. The others follow behind obediently. 

They have barely pushed past the door when they stumble into Jer, Winnifred, Lilian and Ruth are waiting for them at the opening. 

Instantly, the four of them are individually pulled aside by their own mother for tight hugs, compliments and pats on the back. Then, when the mums had given out their share of public humiliation and praise, began the same although more toned down process with the other guys. 

Freddie got flowers from Lilian, John's mother, who pointedly states that they are for all of them, but that he is the lead singer after all. Winnifred compliments his singing and Ruth absolutely adores his white attire and keeps scanning him up and down in admiration. 

"Where's Crystal and Cl— there you are!" Roger chuckles when Kashmira banes her way through the swarm of mothers with Clare on her hip. She smiles bashfully and is reluctant to hand over Roger's little sister, even when he makes insisting grabby hands for her. "Hi, Clare. How did you like it?"

Clare clings to Roger's shoulders and wraps her legs around his middle and begins to talk a mile per hour. 

Freddie grabs Kashmira by the arm to pull her into a hug (careful not to crush the flowers he's been gifted). "Thank you for coming."

She's never shy around him and her modest smile turns into a sly grin when only he can see it. 

"How could I miss my older brother prancing around the stage like the Empress he is?" 

"You couldn't, you're my loyal subject." Freddie teases right back, to which she scoffs a soft, "Oh please."

They are interrupted by Roger, who elbows Freddie with the arm least necessary in supporting Clare. He tips his chin towards the stage. "My drums have been packed up."

"Oh?" Freddie squints in the darkness across the room and sees indeed that Roger's drum pieces have been heaved into the transport boxes already, which will safe them a lot of time later. "How odd?" Freddie turns to his sister and asks, "Did you see who packed up Roger's drums?"

"Yeah!" She points at the bar over her shoulder, "The balding guy who came with Winni and Clare."

It takes Freddie one second longer than Roger to recognize who the denim-clad fellow leaning across the bar is. Obviously, flirting with the pretty dark haired girl behind it making his drink. She doesn't seem all too impressed by his efforts, although she struggles not to break out into a smile. 

Roger's eyes widen in recognition, before they narrow. 

He hands Clare over to Brian without saying a word. Brian doesn't mind, he stops mid-conversation with Lilian and John to greet her and let her kiss his cheek as a hello. Roger calls over his shoulder that they should get looking for a spot to sit, before he starts marching over to the bar where he had spotted Crystal. 

"Oh dear." Freddie smiles and quickly goes after him after excusing himself from the party. 

He catches the tail-end of Rogers introduction when he reaches them. Roger pushes into Crystal, more playful than aggressively of course. 

"You can't be serious..." Is the first thing he says to him.

Crystal first needs to register who had bumped into him before his frown morphs into a shit-eating grin. He opens an arm and curls it around Roger's shoulder and turns his grin back to the amused bartender. 

"You joined me right on time, I was just getting somewhere this pretty lady right over here." Crystal offers her a cocky eyebrow, it takes a lot of willpower for Freddie not to burst out laughing.

The bartender chuckles and fills his glass to the brim with foaming foreign beer. She pushes it on the bar and shoves it his way.

"Call me when you've grown that hair back, yeah."

"Ouch." Crystal clutches at his chest with the hand that did not catch his beer. "You play a hard bargain my lady."

"Chris, this is Janice, my friend I told you about." Roger quickly interferes, although it was not quick enough.

But to Crystals credits, his demeanour towards her does not change whatsoever even with the additional backstory, surely he has heard of Janice. Although never seen her in the flesh before. Freddie had met her only once before, at the funeral service they had held for Imogen a few weeks back. She looks better by the day, especially compared to how scattered she had looked at the funeral. She seems happy now, confident and thrilled with conversation.

Crystals eyes widen, but they are focused on Roger. "You never told me how beautiful your friend was." 

"Well, there were other things going on at the time." Roger says in his defense. The gleeful smile returning to his face in the presence of his friend. 

Crystal scoffs but tightens his arm around Roger's shoulders. Freddie doesn't feel jealous seeing the pair together like that, it is a relief Roger can be comfortable around some men again. It makes his heart swell with pride. "Doesn't matter, I can't do anything with your excuses."

Roger just shakes his head, before turning fully to Janice. "Could you get me four beers, an apple juice, four of your cheapest red wines and some chips if you will?"

Janice is already moving about, her certainty around her working space is infectious and it is nice seeing she has found a place for herself. 

Roger is already fishing around for his wallet in his leather trousers. "Are you liking it here so far?"

"Certainly, I can take as many shifts as I want and the tips are good." She leans across the bar and looks straight at Crystal when she says, "Those suckers will give you anything for a small smile or a little bit of eyelash batting."

"I bet none of them has ever managed to string you into a five-minute conversation." Crystal counters back.

Janice doesn't even pause pouring the beers. "You'd be surprised."

She puts them down on the counter in front of Roger while checking on the chips in the back. Crystal watches her go with a wistful sigh, before turning his full attention back to Roger. He hasn't finished his own drink yet, but is already reaching for one of the glasses meant for Roger. Roger hisses and tries to slap his hand away, but he isn't fast or strong enough to resist the thief. 

"I packed up your drums, by the way." Crystal reminds him, before sipping from the brim of the glass. "You owe me a beer." 

"I don't employ you." Roger reminds him instantly, but Crystal shrugs it off. 

"Well you might have to start paying me if I have to keep doing work for you."

Eventually, Janice returns with their chips and another beer for Roger. Roger puts the money down on the counter, alongside Crystal who leaves an absurdly generous tip for her. They decide to leave Janice to it so she can tend to other patrons too.

"It was very nice seeing you again." Roger smiles widely, "You look good."

"Oh stop that," Janice grins back with a flustered colour to her dark features. "I enjoyed the show, I hope you guys keep doing this, it's magnificent what you do."

"I'm sure we will." It is the first time Freddie speaks. He steps in and helps Roger and Crystal picking up their order to bring back to their mothers and sisters. "Thank you for giving us the opportunity. We appreciate it."

"Don't forget me when you shoot up to fame, is all I'm saying." Janice remarks with a brilliant smile. She tosses a dishtowel over her shoulder and waves them off. "I see you guys around."

"Bye Janice!" Roger calls over his shoulder, almost spilling four drinks over himself when Crystal bumps into him for staring at Janice instead of walking towards their table. "You hopeless idiot." Roger mutters before hip-checking Crystal into action. "You're a fool."

"Look who's talking." Crystal grumbles but obeys Roger's silent command to get their things to their family. 

Roger waits for Freddie to catch up on them. He is bright-eyed and energetic from the show. He leans against Freddie's side when Freddie comes to walk beside them with the chips and apple juice in his hands. 

"Oh I'm no fool," Roger tells Crystal without taking his eyes off Freddie. "I'm perfectly sorted."

★☆★

They stumble into the house only a couple of hours later, after hauling the music equipment in the back of the van and driving Winnifred and Clare home. None of them are really drunk, but the lightweights among them (Roger and Brian) are buzzing pleasantly, whilst John and Freddie don't feel anything before the third drink. 

"Come on, get inside." John pushes Brian and Roger through the door as soon as he's unlocked it. The two trip over each other's feet, arms linked and into the cold hallway. 

Roger is giggling like a maniac and holding onto Brian's neck to keep himself upright.

Brian, on the other hand, is attempting to toe his shoes off without having to let go of Roger. Freddie watches the two from the doorway in mild fascination as Brian straightens Roger long enough to duck down and capture his lips in a long languid kiss. 

Roger's eyes flutter shut with a happy hum. His arms snake around Brian's neck to balance himself on the tips of his toes when Brian takes the liberty to lick into his mouth. 

"Come on." Freddie is pulled inside their flat by John. "Can't let the cold in like that. Heating costs a fortune."

"Right, right." Freddie half-heartedly grumbles as he is led over the threshold. 

He pauses when on the 'welcome' matt a couple of letters are trapped under his boots. He bends down to pick them up, puts them in the front of his trousers to bring them with him to the living room-kitchen-practice space. 

On his way, following John, he hip-checks Brian and hooks his elbow around his arm to force the kissing couple to come with him. 

"You two need some water in your system if you don't want to wake up with a headache."

"Correction," John holds the door open for the three of them with a sly smile. Looking strangely majestic in the dark lightening with the smeared out make-up. "I don't want to wake up to you both whining about a headache."

Roger sticks his tongue out, John just grins and blows him a kiss as he shuts the door behind them. 

Freddie makes a b-line for the kitchen. His throat always suffers the worst after a concert even the small venue ones. He sets the kettle up to boil and grabs two tall glasses of water for the lightweights, while he gets the honey to brew some tea for John and himself. 

The kitchen, like the rest of the flat, is very small. It is all they can afford at the moment. Their music barely pays them anything, considering how much it all costs.

But with Roger and Freddie's stall, John's electrician job and Brians teaching position, they manage to make ends meet even if it meant sewing the holes in their socks instead of buying a new pair. Or huddling close to each other during cold winter nights when they really can't afford to have the heater on the whole day. 

"Anything to eat?" It is difficult to cram two people in the tiny kitchen, but Roger unselfconsciously presses Freddie up against the counter to make room for himself. 

Freddie casts him a smile over his shoulder while he pours the now boiled water into his and John's mugs. 

"If you fancy canned tomatoes and moulding bread, then yes."

"Hmm." Roger makes a disinterested noise. Probably regretting sharing half his chips with Crystal at the pub a couple of hours ago. 

Freddie has to bite back a giggle when Roger nuzzles his neck from behind. His warm and intoxicated body easily curling around him with a soft sigh. "Everything alright?"

"You smell good." Roger hums in the most affectionate, dreamy voice.

It takes all of Freddie's willpower not to melt under the warmth. Instead of doing that, he turns around and taps Roger on the forehead as a warning to behave, frowning playfully when he does. "I smell like sweat and mascara, Darling. No reason to lie. Now grab Brians and your own glass and help me carry it into the living room."

Roger's nose twitches in the way it does when Roger is about to protest. To avoid an argument, Freddie thrusts the two glasses of water into his hands and spins him around towards the couch, where John and Brian are sprawled out on the rugged floor. 

They are a sight to behold. 

Each of them has half-stripped out of their stagewear. Leaving the articles of clothing in a heap next to the couch. 

John is on his back, staring at Brian, staring at the ceiling as if were a starry sky. They lay opposite to each other with the coffee table in between. John straightens up when he sees Freddie approach. It takes a longer moment for Brian to realize they have joined them, until Roger flops down beside him and loudly puts their glasses on the wooden coffee table. 

Freddie hands John his mug of honeyed tea and cradles his own protectively to his chest while he settles down into a cross-legged position. 

With barely any lights on in the room, a beautiful shadow is cast upon his boyfriends' faces when they each drink from their own cup. The bags under their eyes are more emphasized in this lightening, but their cheekbones, noses and the curves of their lips become more a prominent contrast to the rest of their faces. Freddie has not yearned to grab his sketchbook so bad since his university years. 

Roger takes him out of his head when he makes an obnoxious sipping noise when his glass is half empty, scaring Oscar off his lap where he had curled himself up comfortably across Rogers' thighs. Freddie snorts into his mug, forcing tea into his nose. 

John mercifully pats his back while Freddie coughs. Brian offers a sip from his drink to water it down, but Freddie just shakes his head and muscles through the uncomfortable feeling. 

His bend-forward upper body movement makes the paper wedged between his midriff and trousers rustle. 

He had forgotten about them and as soon as the worst of the coughing is over he puts his mug down and tugs the letters free from his trousers to inspect them.

"What's that?" Brian asks immediately, sharpening up after finishing his water. 

Freddie shows him the tell-tale logo of the electrical company that provides their gas every month. It is addressed to all four of them and Brian's face pulls. "Weeks are starting to blur together."

"They really are." Roger comments in a soft, thoughtful tone. "I don't think I mind. It feels very normal, don't you think?"

"I like normal." Freddie agrees, thinking about the implications behind the word for Roger. And the gentle smile that reads a thousand more words. "Ordinary, domestic, perfect." It was the right thing to say, because Roger's smile widens further at the agreement.

John nudges Freddie's shoulder and points with his mug to the other letter. "And that?"

"Oh this?"

Freddie turns it over to see who had sent it, but other than all four of their names written in an unknown handwriting, it doesn't have a return address. 

"How odd." He comments, showing it to the three of them, before shrugging and using his pinky finger to rip the envelope open. 

He takes the letter out with even more confused frown. This text, unlike the envelope, was typed out on a typewriter. He scans over it slowly, trying to understand the context of it, who had sent it and to whom exactly it was meant for. It is past midnight and they had been practising their concert since the wee hours of the morning. The letters blur together and Freddie frowns his way through the contents completely confused, until he reaches about halfway through the final paragraph.

His eyes widen and his heart skips a beat in his chest.

He lowers the letter slowly to look over at his boyfriends, who all three have paused drinking to watch Freddie with worried frowns. 

"Is there something wrong, Fred?"

"Does any of you know one Yeadon? Terry Yeadon?" He asks instead of answering.

Brian sticks his hand up lamely, frown deepening now. "Yes, me. Why?"

Freddie is unsure how to react. Whether to toss the letter into the air and attack the others with a bunch of kisses, or to read it again to make sure that what he read was truly what he thought it said. His heart skips a beat again at the possibilities and at the ideas that are already forced into his head, making it difficult to sit still.

John is one inch away from snatching that letter out of his hands, if it weren't for Freddie sitting up and keeping it out of arms reach. 

"He says that the studio he works for, Pye studios, they have a new premise and need someone to test out the recording equipment for him. We are allowed to record a few of our songs while we do. He will make us a demo."

The words have barely sunken in with himself even when he has to deliver them out loud to his suddenly slack jawed boyfriends. 

John does manage to take the letter from him and gives it another look over. Always the skepital one.

Roger is the first to actually react. He slams his glass down on the coffee table, eyes wide and absurdly young. "A demo? Oh my God."

Freddie nods, his neck hurting with how fast he is bopping it up and down. "A free demo."

"Well not exactly free, we have to work for it." John runs his hand through his hair as he reads through the letter for the second time. His eyes are wide too, though, and his fingers twist at the roots before he stares blankly at Freddie. "But bloody hell... A demo."

"We're going to be rich!" Roger exclaims with his arms thrown in the air. 

Freddie wishes he was not effected the same way Roger was at every new opportunity for Queen. Every time a single door opened for the band, it felt like the gate to heaven had momentarily revealed itself.

John struggles not to break out into a grin, although there is no use in struggling when all three of his boyfriends are beaming like right idiots.

"Don't get too excited yet. It is a few demos, maybe only a couple. We don't know if it will lead to anything."

"But maybe it will." Roger says earnestly, his hands clasped together with an exhilarated smile. He sits upright and gives all three of them a look, of utter refreshing hope. "Maybe this will be our break, for Queen."

The surge of optimism engulfs Freddie and is happy to see it go through John and Brian just as avidly. There is a pregnant pause in the air, in which they wait for someone else to say something, but all four of them are wrapped up in their own interpretation of what this will mean for their future. 

Freddie takes the letter from John again and folds it shut on top of the coffee table. He is smiling, but more content for what he has now, rather than the possibilities of the future. 

"Either way, there is only one certainty I know in my life." He puts his hand out on the coffee table, palm up and looking straight at Roger. He waits for him to catch on and in return put his hand in Freddie's to intertwine their fingers. "And that whatever our future may be, we will be together." 

★☆★ __

_"Oh God— Get a room you two. Gross."_

_Roger covers his eyes as he enters the overlit dressing room. It's usually a lot more crowded than it is now prior to a show. He suspects staff might have gone down for a final drink before the show begins._

_Not that it matters. Everyone relevant is present, Brian is examining his white tailored blazer in one of the Hollywood-style mirrors with a serious narrowed stare. Crystal is putting out Roger's clothes for tonight over the chair Roger had claimed with his duffel bag._

_But his attention is mostly fixed on John, who has Freddie perched up in his lap on a plastic chair that creaks dangerously under their combined weight._

_They had been snogging each others' faces off, probably in front of the roadies. (Probably why they all subsequently left.)_

_Rogers' teasing gagging had broken them apart, now two pairs of dazed eyes pierce into his very being. Upon their silent calling, Roger steps closer until he is in touching range._

_"Hi there." Freddie pulls Roger down for a filthy kiss on the lips, it lasts only long enough for Crystal to clear his throat pointedly and Freddie lets go with an exasperated huff. He smooths his hand down Roger's chest. "How's Dominique?"_

_"Happy with the excellent progress I'm making." Roger grins in proud giddiness, having just gotten off the phone with her. "Listening to the album on repeat and when she isn't, she says it's playing everywhere she goes."_

_That finally alerts the fourth member of the group._

_"That will be because of me." Brian jokes from across the room._

_"Excuse me?" John has to wrap his arms around Freddie's waist to keep him from sliding off his lap in his enthusiasm to challenge Brian, wagging a finger in the air. "Who here wrote We Are The Champions?"_

_"I'm pretty sure I wrote the," Brian pauses to grab the magazine that had left a lovely review on their album the other day, a true rarity, really. The critics despise them, which is why they have been re-reading this article over a dozen of times. Brian opens it to the correct page and reads, "'Spectacular and original guitar solo' in it. Didn't I?"_

_Crystal snatches the newspaper from Brian in one smooth movement. He clears his throat and takes over in his obnoxious newscaster voice. "Did you also write 'another example of the majesty of Roger Taylor's fresh and fundamental drum sound'?" He looks up at Brian and blinks. "Hm?"_

_Brian turns around to step away from the mirror, finally satisfied with the way his hair falls over his blazer, as if it would matter once he starts running across the stage._

_"Perhaps all of us had a little hand in it." He admits with a smile secretly curling around his lips._

_Roger snorts and hip checks Crystal away from the mirror, even though there is more than enough room elsewhere. He likes the contact and the noise of surprise Crystal makes at being shoved aside._

_"Defending my honour? I should promote you."_

_"Promote me to what? You'd never find anyone else to put up with you and work as your drum technician." Crystal points out. "You're the most specific, meticulous, nilly-willy drummer I have ever met."_

_Roger could pretend to have an argument against that notion, but he doesn't._

_"Touché."_

_In the mirror he sees John letting Freddie off his lap to get up. He drags himself across the room to come and stand behind Roger in the mirror._

_They look at each other's reflection for a long moment, as John smooths his hands over Roger's shoulders._

_They don't quite dress up anymore the way they used to for a Day At The Races or A Night At The Opera. Except for Freddie, of course, who rocks a different leotard every night. Looking at himself now, short-haired, bare-faced and denim-clad, Roger misses it sometimes. The dolling up and the attention of detail that had come with the allure of glam._

_The costumes have gone out of fashion, as have the long hair and the pseudo operatic seven-minute tracks._

_He still thinks fondly back to the many times he had stood with John in a mirror, fighting over space in cramped dressing rooms with a single sink or no light at all until they began packing flashlights with their stage gear._

_Now, they all get one dressing room each. With catering for them, their roadies and rest of the entourage and beers that would make a London based pub envious._

_Nevertheless, they don't tend to separate, getting ready together will remain one of the best parts of the evenings, even when it doesn't take eye-liner and lipstick anymore._

_Roger blinks heavily when he feels John planting a soft kiss to the back of Roger's neck._

_"That's my cue," Crystal comments only half annoyed, half teasing._

_They wait for Crystal to take his respectful leave and shut the door to give the four of them the privacy they so gravely lack these days. The door shuts with a final click. Crystal's presence still hangs in the room, in the scent of his cigarettes and cologne, but he is a comfortable companion to have._

_John continues to squeeze Roger's shoulders when the silence returns to the dressing room and they are alone._

_"Everything alright?"_

_"Yes." John looks particularly good with the short hair. It brings more attention to his eyes and the elegant shape of his nose. Roger brightens up in the mirror and answers the question again, honestly. "I'm okay."_

_"Big crowd tonight." John hums._

_"Big money tonight too." Brian speaks up from one of the chairs, lacing his shoes up. "Heard they sold over four hundred posters already, they haven't got a count on t-shirts yet, but it was looking really good."_

_Artistry changes. They have merchandise now, posters, clothes with their faces on it, badges and program booklets._

_Roger thinks wearily of a time where they had to struggle their equipment into their beat-up van and drag themselves from town to town every night to make a name for themselves. He remembers eating canned food for a year straight and sometimes taking such poor care of himself that he would fall asleep standing in the middle of his and Freddie's stall. The memories trigger the exhaustion he had been backing into the corner of his mind during the tour._

_He forces his shoulders to straighten up and to inhale deeply. He can't deflate this early in the evening. "We better get going then. They'll riot if we're late."_

_"We don't have to be on the dot." John kneads his fingers into Roger's sore muscles. "They already paid for their tickets."_

_Fame hasn't changed them much, luckily. Roger thinks they were always meant to be rich and popular. It suits them like a glove._

_"Do you have a memory of going to a concert?" Roger reminds him fondly. "They'll notice if we are not on the dot."_

_"Hm." John pushes his shoulders back to peck Roger on the lips. His lips are soft as rose paddles and warm as sunflowers. Roger shuts his eyes to savour the sensation for a moment longer even when John is already pushing back into his own space. "Alright," He admits then. "You might be correct."_

_"Awww, I get to be right sometimes."_

_"Sometimes." John smirks._

_He lets go of Roger. The loss of touch brings Roger to pout, although they have business to attend to._

_John grabs Brian by the arm and makes a b-line for the door. "Come on Bri, time to fetch our guitars and get ready."_

_"Oh yes." Brian spares a wide-eyed look at the clock on the wall as he allows himself to be dragged off. He casts one look over his shoulder and gives a one-armed wave. "We see you two upstairs."_

_"See you there Bri."_

_"Love you, Darlings. See you there."_

_Roger still has to put his stagewear on. Which is a simplistic breezy linen blouse that doesn't close and flared satin trousers._

_He strips down to his underwear to put on his concert clothes instead. Once the two pieces are on, he tousles his hair up in the mirror using hairspray in the mirror, next he picks a selection of his jewellery by running his hands over the pieces before choosing by touch which ones will bedazzle the rest of his outfit._

_Last, he unselfconsciously rolls the sleeves up to his forearms to expose his tattoo and the sweatbands that decorate his wrists._

_In a private moment of silence, he admires John's handy job with the ink and needle. The W is fading somewhat and he will need a touchup to do the meaning justice. He might ask John to do it again, even if he can easily afford a real tattoo artist these days._

_Roger runs his thumb over thick scar tissue underneath his tattoo where he remains brandmarked. He hasn't forgotten. He still remembers too much._

_Even now that he is comfortably rich, famous and in a secure relationship, he still needs to see Dominique every single week. When he is on tour he has to call her, sometimes outside of their appointments when he gets offered drugs by the next unsuspecting party-goer when they are all a couple of drinks in. Roger prides himself for not relapsing, but it is a damn near thing sometimes when he remembers the cold rush of heroin that would spread from his vein into his bloodstream, until the icy cold became a euphoric warmth that brought his soul through to the marrow of his bones and eradicated the definition of pain or suffering, if only for a moment. It is the most tempting when he wakes up in cold sweat from plaguing nightmares and his heartbeat only slows down when he realizes that the hotel mattress is too soft to be the ones from Richard's apartment and boyfriends' bodies are too warm to be that of a dead man._

_He realized very quickly that he will be an addict for the rest of his life._

_It took a lot longer to make peace with it than it took for him to realize._

_Roger knows he will be addicted to various drugs for the rest of his life, physically scarred and traumatized beyond the ordinary norm. He will be asked questions about the physical marks he wears openly, the court case will be brought up again and again by reporters. For the rest of his life, he knows he will have records in his shelves with his own name on the back. He will never struggle for money, food or shelter again. He will visit his mother and little sister whenever he wants to and support them until the day he dies. Until that day, he knows that he will have three boyfriends by his side, who have gone through hell and back with him and would do it all over again without hesitation if they had to._

_There is a lot to worry about, but never again would it outweigh what he could rely on._

_"Roger," Comes the tentative voice to coax Roger out of his thoughts. "Are you coming?"_

_In the mirror he sees Freddie step up from behind him and wrap his arms around his waist. Roger closes his eyes and leans back into the familiar touch, knowing that everything is truly alright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the very last time, I would like to thank you all for reading along and your continuous support. I’m in literal tears. It was a true honor spending all this time with you all. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you’ve liked it❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, if you liked it please leave a comment ❤️ It is such a joy to write. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Special shoutout to my sweet supporter and best friend throughout this, Bisexualroger ❤️


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